


NOX/FOX

by lumbeam



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (kind of), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Body Horror, Customizable Android Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Possessive Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-05 06:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17319410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumbeam/pseuds/lumbeam
Summary: After a new drug causes an up-spike of overdoses in both humans and androids, Connor is chosen to go undercover and get closer to the source.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (deep inhale)
> 
> This is something I wrote for the hankcon...well, it rhymes with schmig schmang. ANYWAY Things Happened and I chose to bow out. I'm going to release this chapter-by-chapter while I work on my other ongoing fic, although it will probably be ~2 times a week since all I need to do is make minor edits.
> 
> (deep exhale)
> 
> ENJOY

Connor keeps flipping through the radio.  
  
On a Tuesday morning, the _last_ thing Hank wants to hear is the different clicks and sounds between radio stations. Wait, scratch that. The _actual_ last thing he wants to hear in the early morning is Connor talking about work. Since their relationship started, Hank has enforced a “no work talk” rule going to and/or from work. And, depending on the day, that rule extends to when they’re home. Connor has had a tough time with that. So, in order to combat his brain trying to jump back into the caseload, he flicks through the radio stations to drown out the directives flooding his mind.

Hank glances down to watch Connor’s fingers twist the knob, finally ending up on 94.1. _Great, a news channel_ , Hank thinks to himself. The newscaster cuts through the silence in the car.  
  
“—say that the distressing spike of overdoses in the Detroit area are linked to the drug Nox, which is believed—” Hank, groaning, clicks the knob a couple turns over to the classic rock station.  
  
“Just what we need, another fuckin’ drug on the streets.” Hank says, gripping the steering wheel.

Connor’s hands itch to go back to 94.1, but he suppresses the urge. “We’re not working vice, Hank.”  
  
“ _Yeah_ , but knowing Jeffrey, and _trust me_ , I know Jeffrey, we’ll somehow have to deal with this Nox problem.”

“Do you think it’ll lead to more homicides?” Connor asks, his LED a golden yellow.

“Of course it will, that’s always— _Connor.”_ Hank stops his line of thoughts. “You’re trying to get me to talk about work.”

Connor, smiling slightly, says, “You’re the one who wanted to talk about it.”

Hank rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who switched the news station, smart ass.”

Connor clicks the volume up on the rock station to calm Hank down. For the remaining five minutes of the ride, he tries not to think about work.

—

As soon as Hank and Connor arrive at their respective desks, Captain Fowler calls them into his office. Hank shoots Connor a look that says “I told you so.”

When they walk in, Jeffrey motions for them to take a seat. Hank sits down with a groan, but Connor remains standing.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about Nox, Anderson.” He begins.

Hank turns slightly to give Connor a look that says, “See? I _definitely_ told you so.”

“What about it?” Hank asks, feigning ignorance.

“The city of Detroit has seen an increase in overdoses in both humans _and_ androids. Nox is the key culprit.”

“Androids?” Connor interjects, his LED flickering.

“How the fuck can androids OD on anything?”

“For androids, they have to inject it through—” The Captain makes a motion to his sternum, not quite remembering the term.  
  
“Androids inject it through their thirium regulator.” Connor finishes, furrowing his brows. “But they would have to remove their regulator in order to—”

“That’s how androids have been found. A needle in one hand, their…. _regulator_ in the other.” He explains, not quite used to the difference in anatomy. “We need to get toxicology on it. There’s talks of a bad batch going around.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Hank grumbles, “it was only a matter of time before dealers tapped into the android market…”

“The boys in the vice quadrant have made a couple arrests on some small-time dealers. The name ‘The Fox’ keeps popping up in the interrogations. It looks like he’s Detroit’s kingpin, at least for now.” Jeffrey hands out two manila folders to Connor and Hank. Connor scans through it, but Hank tosses the file onto the adjacent seat.  
  
“Jeffrey, if you don’t mind me asking: what the _fuck_ do you want with us?”  
  
“Anderson, I _do_ mind you asking, but we were going to create a sting operation to see where The Fox is getting his supply from. We could bust his operation now, but—”

“But you want to get the puppet master of everything.” Hank smiles, “Another notch to your bedpost.”  
  
Jeff rolls his eyes. “We need someone to go undercover.”

The smile on Hank’s face fades. “Wait, I’m not— Jeffrey, I—"

He holds up his hand in protest. “ _Jesus_ Hank, relax. Not you.” His directs his attention towards Connor. “Him.”

Connor looks up from the case file, his LED circling a pale yellow. Before Connor can say anything, Hank interjects, “You can’t be serious! Connor’s never done a mission like this!”

“Yes, I’m very aware of that. But the RK800 model was designed for assisting the police.”

“It’s—it’s a fucking suicide mission!” Hank yells, standing up from his chair.

“He’ll be _fine_! He’ll have a listening device installed on him and multiple sets of eyes on him—”

“You just want him to do it because he’s an _android—”_ Hank’s face is getting redder and redder.

“I’ll do it.” Connor says calmly. Hank looks back at him, worried.

“Good. Read the case notes. Come up with an alias and run it by me. We’re going to try to get you to meet The Fox by Saturday.” Captain Fowler motions to the door, and Hank and Connor make their exit.

When Hank gets back to his desk, he grabs his coffee mug and makes his way to the lunchroom, pointedly avoiding Connor’s gaze. As he pours his coffee, he tries not to think of Connor lying dead in some drug den, shot full of holes, his brain smashed into blue mush—

“Hank,” Connor says, and Hank is so used to Connor sneaking up behind him he doesn’t even jump. “Is everything okay?”

Hank grabs his mug and tries to go back to his desk. Connor grabs his arm, causing Hank to spill a drip of his coffee on the floor.  
  
Hank looks into Connor’s eyes, and damn if he isn’t disarmed by the sincerity.

“Look, I know you’re not happy I was chosen for the undercover mission—”  
  
“‘Chosen?’ Connor, you fucking volunteered!” Hank hisses back at him.  
  
“But you _know_ Captain Fowler. He would have had me go undercover whether I wanted to or not.” Connor reasons. Hank grits his teeth. He’s right. “But you need to trust me. I’m going to be _fine_.” He moves his hand from Hank’s arm to his shoulder in a firm grasp. “I’m highly capable of adapting. You know that incredibly well.”

Hank fights back a chuckle. Right again. “Let’s go over the case file.”

—

After pouring over every minute detail about Nox and The Fox — and Hank can’t help but wonder why anyone would want to be named ‘The Fox’  — the next course of action was to develop Connor’s undercover persona.

The first step was to decide what Connor’s alias will be. “Okay Connor, you can choose _any_ name so long as it fits in with, _ugh_ , ‘The Fox’ and his crew.” Hank rolls his eyes at the name. “I’m just going to call him ‘Fox.’ Only a fuckin’ asswipe would insist upon a ‘the’ in their name…”

Connor spins his coin on the kitchen table, his LED circling blue, then yellow, then blue, and then back to yellow.

“You okay?” Hank asks after a moment. Connor’s LED settles on a blue, then he looks to meet Hank’s gaze.

“I’ve decided on a name.” He said, confident in his processing.  
  
“Okay, _shoot_.”

“How about...Francois?”  
  
Hank’s head falls back with a laugh. Out of his vast database of every name that has ever existed… “‘ _Francois?_ ’”

Connor furrows his brows. “Is something wrong? Francois is a common name.”

“Yeah, maybe like….in _France_ , but you can’t have that as a name.” Hank, laughing, pinches the bridge of his nose.  

“Hank, Detroit is derived from the French word meaning ‘strait.’” Connor says matter-of-factly. “It’s not too hard to believe androids would want to express their appreciation for history.”

“Thank you for the lesson, but I’m just thinking it wouldn’t fit in amongst big-time drug dealers. You wanna fit in, not carry a big neon sign that says ‘hey, I’m a narc!’” Hank thinks about bland names. “How about Mark?”

“If that’s what you think would be good in an undercover situation.” Connor says diplomatically.  
  
“Francois could be your middle name.” Hank says, grinning.  
  
Connor only nods slightly. “What about my last name?”  
  
“I don't think that’s as much of an issue. You’re an android, after all.”

“Mark Francois…” Connor muses.

And with a few keystrokes on the laptop, Connor’s alias is born. “Okay, step one is done. Now, ya can’t go in there looking—”

Connor’s memory flashes back to when he and Hank stood outside Chicken Feed. “‘Goofy?’” He asks. He tries not to hold it over Hank, as he had a different...understanding about androids, but the way he said it has followed Connor ever since.

“For lack of a better term, yeah. Can you change your—?” Hank motions to Connor’s hair.

A blue light passes over Connor’s hair, changing in front of Hank’s eyes. The texture of his hair has changed to something slightly more frizzy. The wayward lock that hangs down his forehead is the last thing to change. Hank smiles at the difference. It’s almost as if he styled his hair to look like _sex hair_. Maybe this suits the style of Mark Francois.

Then again, it’s not as if Hank knows anything about style. Connor does, slightly more, but he’s not sure how many fashion protocols were programmed into him back at CyberLife.  
  
“I can also change the color,” Connor says, the blue light passing over his scalp a few times. He quickly changes his hair from brunette, to blonde, to red. “Oh, it seems I can change the color to _this_.” He lets the light go through his locks again, settling on gray. “Does this look familiar to you?”

Hank rolls his eyes. “ _Ha ha,_ very funny. Asshole…” Connor smiles slightly as he turns his hair back to brunette and perfectly coiffed. Hank continues to type up the profile. “Were you going to wear that?”  
  
Connor looked down at his white button up and tie. “I suppose not. I doubt many of The Fox’s dealers wear outfits like mine.”

“Or mine,” Hank strokes his beard. “We might have to pick out some new clothes for you.”  
  
“Judging from my brief time at Jericho, the deviants typically wore things that were—” His LED spins as he looks for the right word. “—disheveled.”

Hank nods, thinking of the kinds of junkies he’s arrested throughout his career. “We probably shouldn’t get _new_ clothes. I think Fox will be able to smell a rat if you walked in with the latest style. Maybe we’ll check out some thrift shops tomorrow.”

“In the meantime, I’ll search my database for what kinds of clothing to be looking for.” Connor’s eyelids flutter as he does a cursory search of outfits. Lots of beanies, lots of over-sized clothing. When he was dressed up in street clothes to infiltrate Jericho, he was...uncomfortable. Going into that mission, he might not have applied _any_ emotion to his state of mind. It was only after he broke through to deviancy that he became aware of the sensation of clothes against his skin.

He was used to things being tailored perfectly to his figure in order to ensure the utmost aerodynamic movements. Feeling the Jericho mission clothing hanging off of him made him feel _strange_. He disliked the feeling of the stone wash denim pooling at his ankles, the beanie covering his LED. He felt that “otherness” that he never thought much of before then. He didn’t feel like a human, and he certainly didn’t feel like a machine after Markus got through to him. There was this in-between feeling that he couldn’t shake until after the Revolution.  
  
He tries not to think of how those feelings could come back when he meets The Fox.

Hank must have noticed his yellow LED, because the next thing Connor feels is a calloused hand covering his own. “Connor?” He questioned.  
  
Connor disrupts the memories of standing in front of Markus, directive stating _I AM DEVIANT._ He stops the residual flood of _feelings_ and sensations after that wall broke down. He looks up at Hank. “I’m okay.” His voice seems so _small_.  
  
Hank nods slowly, not entirely buying it. He decides not to press further.  “I think it’s time for bed.” He says softly, squeezing Connor’s hand. He gets up a moment later after making sure Connor makes a motion to stand also. As the two of them change into their pajamas, Hank asks again. “Connor, are you sure you’re going to be okay?”  
  
Connor, buttoning his sleep shirt up with his nimble fingers, looks up at Hank. He gives a slight smile. “Of course I will.” He sounds more sure of himself this time.  
  
By the time Hank slips under the covers, Connor’s LED is a cool blue. “Goodnight Hank,” he says quietly as he goes into sleep mode. Hank watches Connor as his face immediately goes into rest mode. There’s no twitching, no adjusting to get more comfortable, no tossing and turning. It’s kind of eerie to watch it happen. Hank brushes a hand across Connor’s cheek before placing a good night kiss on it.  
  
“Night, Con.” Hank whispers before turning the other way and falling asleep.

—-

After their shift (more Nox overdoses, but no more arrests), Hank and Connor make their way to a thrift store. Even though it’s 2039, the interior of the building looks like it hasn’t changed since 1998. The stale smells of the clothing waft through Hank’s nostrils like a forgotten memory. He remembers when he and his friends would come through here to find death metal t shirts from yesteryear. Sighing at the thought, he watches Connor make a beeline to the men’s clothing.

Among the moth-bitten wool suits and the polyester shirts, Connor makes it his _mission_ to find the perfect outfit. Hank figures Connor’s good on his own until he has to try things on (and even then, he doesn’t have to worry about clothes fitting differently since his measurements are always consistent, how _unfair_ ), so he casually looks through the t-shirt section.

Just as Hank has two crude novelty shirts— one that says _Liquor in front, poker in back_ and the other that says _Hope you get some, asshole—_ Connor returns with a cart full of clothing. Not that it will cost much, but Hank is still glad Connor is getting paid by the DPD.

“Hey Connor, look at these!” Hank says, holding up his two shirts for Connor to read and process.  
  
“Hank, when are you going to wear those?” Connor asks dismissively.

Hank bundles the shirts into the crook of his arm. No amount of judgement will cause Hank to put them back.  “Probably about the same time you’ll be wearing your ‘Not A Narc’ clothes.”

Connor rolls his eyes, or at least tries to. It more so looks like he’s fluttering his pupils. “I’m ready to check out. I don’t need to try these on.”  
  
Imagining Connor has an outfit program in his CPU like he was Alicia Silverstone in the movie _Clueless_ , Hank smiles. “Okay, although you do know you’re going to have to try them on for me later.”

“I...would definitely prefer that over trying them on here.” Connor smiles back.

—

“Now Connor,” Hank starts to explain as the android is switching outfits, “even though I’ll be listening in on your conversations with Fox, you’re also going to have to know what to say.” Hank sits on the edge of the bed, watching Connor navigate through the pile of clothes he bought today. Eclectic like his own button-up shirts, but still dissimilar enough for Hank not to “get it.” He really is getting old...

Connor pulls on some checkered pants and a black sweater. It’s not personally his style but he thinks it’s good for Mark Francois. “My programming is used to adapting to unpredictable situations.”

“I’m very aware, you haven’t made me forget, but you need to know the slang.”  
  
Connor ties up his boots. “I can download a slang protocol.”  
  
Hank sighs. Connor stands, and Hank watches him move closer to him.  
  
“Is there something wrong?” Connor is now close enough to place a hand on Hank’s shoulder.  
  
“Could ya download a casual conversation protocol?”

“ _Hank_ ,” Connor says with a slight tightness in his voice, “we’ve gone over this. I’m more than capable of succeeding.”

“Well,” Hank says with a groan, “show me how you’re going to act. Just walk past me, you don’t have to worry about what to say.”

Connor furrows his brows, his LED spinning a slow yellow. After changing the texture of his hair to Mark’s style, he goes to the bedroom door, loading the information of his alias.

_I am not Connor._

_My name is Mark, middle name Francois. I was an early deviant RK800 model before_ Connor _came around. I found my way to Jericho. I want to score some Nox. I have the resources and the market to buy it. I need to meet The Fox._

These messages come one by one into Mark’s vision, dissipating after a moment as the information loads. Mark turns to face the other side of the room. He walks past Hank as if he were nothing.  
  
“Hey, _Mark_!” Hank calls out. He is half expecting a Connor-like expression to seep back through the mask. Instead, Hank is greeted with Mark’s expression of cool indifference. And, with that small gesture, Hank’s apprehension lessens a little.  
  
“How are you going to talk?” Hank asks, watching Mark examine his synthetic fingernails.

“I was thinking something like this.” Mark says, his voice slightly deeper than Connor’s. Deeper, yet _cooler_? And smooth.

Something stirs within Hank. “Come here,” he says just above a whisper, patting a spot next to him. If he were slightly more keyed up, he would have motioned to his lap. Mark strides over to the bed, and Hank’s breath hitches slightly. “I think you might be able to pull this off, Con.”  
  
Mark’s LED spins to a yellow, “I don’t know who ‘Con’ is.” He says, his brown eyes searching Hank’s face.

Hank ruffles his hair roughly, as if to shake the persona off of him. “All right, that’s enough.” Connor’s expression softens as his hair changes back to its usual style. “Sheesh, for a second there I thought you weren’t going to drop the act.”

“Would you like that?” Connor responds in his Mark voice. And just like that, it goes straight to Hank’s dick. He can only see Connor’s face through his peripherals, but he knows he’s giving _that_ look. If Hank were to look at his expression dead on, he would wake up tomorrow with a sore back and stiff knees.  
  
Despite wanting to pound Connor/Mark into the mattress, Hank gives his leg a squeeze, then a couple pats. “Maybe another night, sport.” He’s about to get up when he feels Connor grab at his wrist.

“Please Hank, I _insist_.” The last word goes lower. And just like that, Hank falls victim to the earnest expression on Connor’s face once again.

  
“Ah _hell_.” He says to himself, cupping either sides of Connor’s face as he pulls him into a kiss.

—

Connor and Hank arrive at the precinct the next day, with Hank rubbing his lower back. “Next time, _you’re_ doing the work.” He grumbles to Connor.

Connor gets close to Hank’s ear. “ _With pleasure_ ,” he says in Mark’s voice.

Instead of the effect it had on him last night, Hank just groans. “C’mon, we have to meet with Jeffrey. I think he knows how you’re going to meet Fox.”

As they make their way to the office, they see Captain Fowler make his way to one of the interrogation rooms. “Anderson!” He calls out, “Room 2!”

Connor’s steps double in speed while Hank’s stride remains the same.

They go into the observation side of the interrogation room. Beyond the one way mirror, a twentysomething guy sits at the table, his arms folded. He stares at the clock in the room.

“This,” Jeffrey begins, “is Mittz.”

“ _Jesus_ , don’t dealers have regular nicknames these days?” Hank laughs. Connor keeps his eyes on the perp.

“His last name’s Mittzinski, so it makes more sense than ‘The Fox.’” The Captain rifles through the police report. “Officer Young cuffed him late last night with a few decks of Nox.”

“Shit, how many years is he looking at?” Hank asks, walking over to the surface of the one way mirror.

“If he strikes a deal with us, it’ll be a menial sentence.” Jeffrey closes the report.

“He’s going to lead me to The Fox.” Connor states. He watches the guy’s sneering expression through the glass.  
  
“You got it.” Jeffrey says. “I read the alias background Hank typed up a few days ago. It might get you in easily.”

“I’m going to go and talk to him.” Connor makes his way to the door.  
  
“Will you need help?” Hank calls out, stopping the android in his tracks.

Connor turns his head enough to hide his LED. “I’ll be fine.”

Mittz, as one would expect, isn’t forthcoming about his role with The Fox’s organization. It’s not until Connor point blank says to him: “You’re going to lead me to him, or you’re going to rot away in a jail cell.”

Even with that threat, Mittz keeps his distance. “He’ll be able to sniff you out in a second.” He speaks in a mumble, his eyes turned away from Connor’s unrelenting gaze. “Fuckin’ narc.”

“I’ll only be as successful as you let me be. Like it or not, but we have to work together for both our sakes. Or we could find some other Nox dealer that will be more willing to help us. There’s plenty crawling around in Detroit.” Connor monitors Mittz’s steadily rising stress levels.

Finally, he directs his pale blue eyes towards Connor. Looking at him directly for the first time, Connor can tell he’s terrified. With his skinny arms in front of him, he seems much younger than he is. “Deal.” He mutters in a quiet voice, as if he doesn’t want Hank and the Captain to hear it.

Connor nods and walks to the door. “I hope it will be a pleasure to work with you, Mittzinski.”

Mittz says nothing in return.

—

The chips are in place. Now is just a matter of time for Connor to meet The Fox. It almost makes things _worse_ for Hank.  
  
After Hank only ate half of his dinner, he goes to grab his coat. The late fall is giving in too soon to the dreadful Detroit winter. “I’m going to take Sumo for a walk.” He says to Connor, who’s in the living room undoubtedly downloading protocols for dealing with drug traffickers. He’s been exceptionally quiet as of late. Hank saw he spent the better part of the afternoon looking up Mittz’s file, trying to figure him out.

Connor turns his head, showing off his blinking yellow LED. “Do you want me to come?” He asks, more distracted than he normally would. He’s usually as excited as Sumo to go out for a _w-a-l-k_.

Hank buttons his coat and finds Sumo’s leash next to his bag of food. “Nah, stay here and...do whatever you’re doing.”

Connor turns back to face the TV despite not watching it. He barely notices Hank slam the door as he and Sumo walk out.

Hank tries to focus on the sound of Sumo’s panting as they circle the neighborhood. The knot that’s been in his belly ever since he found out about the existence of Nox has only tightened. He’s seen the _worst_ of the worst in crime scenes. He’s seen people’s organs where they shouldn’t be, he’s seen people near death, he’s interviewed the scum of the earth.

  
So why has the knot appeared now?

Hank sighs out, watching his breath dissipate in the cold night air. He _knows_ why. It’s something he’s tried his hardest not to think about since Connor was chosen for the mission. A drug has already ruined his life once, he doesn’t need it to happen again just as he’s trying to put the pieces back together.    
  
He didn’t realize until now that he had stopped walking. Sumo is done doing his business, and he breaks Hank’s concentration with a soft _boof_. Hank looks down at Sumo. “All right boy, let’s go another ten minutes.”

Sumo whines slightly, but tugs at the leash for Hank to pick up the pace.  
  
They get back to the house in less than ten minutes.

—

The walk does help, slightly. He feels lighter.

When he comes back, Connor is at the sink, doing dishes. “Con, you don’t have to do them.”

“I really don’t mind. Besides, if I left them up to you they would be here for another few weeks.”  
  
“Oh _fuck_ you,” Hank says despite knowing Connor is right. He looks at Connor to see that he’s smirking. His LED is blue.

“I’m gonna take a shower. S’getting late.” Hank says with a yawn. “Don’t be up too long.”

“I’ll be done before you’ll be out of the shower!” Connor calls out to Hank as he closes the bathroom door shut.

Sure enough, Connor was right. Hank finds him in bed, the blankets tucked tightly around his legs. His eyelids are fluttering until Hank clears his throat.  
  
“Oh, I was just researching some—” Connor looks down at Hank’s shirt. He’s wearing the “ _hope you get some, asshole!”_ shirt he got at the thrift store the other day. “I. You’re wearing that.” He states.

 

Hank dries off his hair before slinging the towel over the bedroom door. “Why wouldn’t I wear it? I bought it, didn’t I?”

 

“Yes, but.” Connor furrows his brows, eyes focusing on the shirt. “I don’t get what it means. Or why anyone would want a shirt like that.”  
  
Hank shrugs and as he pulls back the covers, untucking Connor in the process. “Beats me.”

“Would you like me to get the light?” Connor asks, trying not to search the shirt phrase in his programming. CyberLife would have some interesting questions for him. _If_ they’re still monitoring him, that is.

“Yeah, sure.” Hank situates himself and lays down amongst two nearly flat pillows. The knot in his stomach starts to loop around itself again. Hank ignores it. “Night, Connor.”  
  
“Goodnight, Hank.” Connor almost immediately goes into sleep mode. Hank, surprisingly, falls asleep not that long after him.

—  
  
  
_Hank’s running. He’s not sure where. The street lights flicker and hum as he passes under each of them. He’s pumping his legs as fast as his middle-aged body can take him, but it feels like he’s running underwater. Nothing he can do can make him go faster._

_He hears his name being called. It’s Connor’s voice. Or, at least, it sounds like Connor’s voice. It’s weak, strained. “Haank…” The voice calls out again._

_Hank tries to yell to get a response, but his throat feels like sandpaper. Like he’s been yelling all his life. He huffs out a cough, pumping his arms as if it will help anything._

_He sees the end of the street. One light is glowing an ominous red. He sees a figure under the light. Connor._  
  
_As soon as he’s within an arm’s reach, Hank collapses. He’s lost all feeling in his legs as he crawls to Connor. “Hank.” Connor says again, even weaker than before. His chest has been ripped open, his biocomponents strewn about and stomped into the pavement. Hank scrambles to grab them, to try and fix him. “It’s no use.” Connor says, his vocal component turning to static. Hank lifts Connor’s head in his lap, only to have it separate from Connor’s body with the motion—_  
  
  
Hank’s eyes shoot open. His shirt is soaked in sweat. He grabs at Connor, shaking him out of sleep mode.  
  
Connor’s eyes open after a moment, but it feels like a lifetime. His LED shines a bright blue, a sign that he’s okay, that everything is—

“Hank, Hank, what is it?” Connor asks, his arms propping him up slightly. Hank searches Connor’s face, illuminated by his LED. Hank can’t find the words to say anything. He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a wet sob. He pulls Connor in for a tight hug, which Connor immediately reciprocates.  
  
If it were even a few months ago, Connor would have plenty of questions for him in this moment. He understands now that there’s a time for silence, and a time for questions.

It doesn’t take a detective to figure out what’s wrong.  
  
He runs a hand through Hank’s damp hair as Hank muffles his cries into Connor’s shoulder.

Eventually, Hank manages to compose himself. He takes off his shirt to wipe off his tears. “Sorry.” He chokes out as he drops the shirt off the side of the bed.

Connor runs his hand to the back of Hank’s neck. “You don’t need to apologize. Just try to get some rest.”

Hank slips back to sleep as Connor curls up next to him. He manages to sleep until his alarm goes off.


	2. Chapter 2

“Testing, testing.” Connor says, trying to see if Chris and Hank can hear him from the wire, or _covert listening device_ , as per the android’s insistent terminology. They give their thumbs up from beyond the glass.

Hank is slightly surprised that a wire wasn’t in place already. He knows about Connor’s memory banks, which will come in handy in the investigation, but as Connor explains, his listening devices didn’t offer two way communication. If there is an issue, which Hank is certainly more concerned about than Connor, it’s _pretty fucking important_ to have officers on standby in case things get too hot.

Chris turns on the intercom that connects to Connor’s CPU. “Testing, testing.” He says in return. Connor nods at the sound. It echoes through his system, but makes no sound out of him. It’s what Connor imagines an internal monologue to be.  
  
Hank scoots in and points the microphone to his direction. “Now Connor, we’re only going to use this when we have to. Otherwise we’ll just be listening and gathering intel.” Connor nods, running a finger along his neck where the device was put into him. “Also, don’t touch it. We’re getting some feedback when you do that.”  
  
“Sorry,” Connor says, removing his hand from along his neck.

“There’s also a possibility that your facial recognition might not work with the wire in place.” Chris says.  
  
Connor’s caught off guard at this, but he gives the affirmative anyway.  
  
Hank gets up and makes his way on the other side of the glass. “Connor,” he says as he walks in. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“I feel…” Connor pauses for a moment to find the right words. “I feel okay. But how do _you_ feel?”  
  
Hank shrugs with a sigh. Connor detects the tension in his shoulders. “I think I’ll be better once you get home.”  
  
Adjusting the sleeves on his sweater, Connor nods. They share a moment to look at one another. Connor tries to use his facial recognition program, causing his vision to glitch out on him. He blinks his eyes rapidly until his vision of Hank is clear again.

Hank decides to break the silence, knowing Chris is in the other room watching them. “Uh, you’ll be meeting up with Mittz at 10 pm. I’d tell you to act natural, but…” He smiles a bit, but Connor’s LED seems to be acting up. “Should you take that out? I’d hate for it to be a tell.”

Connor brushes his fingers over his flickering LED. “I think that would be beneficial for the mission.”

Hank flicks out his pocket knife. “Do you want me to do it?”

“No, that’s—I can do it. It won’t hurt.” Connor takes the knife from him, eyes glancing down at the glint of the blade.

Hank steps back, letting Connor walk towards his reflection. He brings the tip of the knife to the center of his LED and jimmies it out. It falls to the floor with a light _tink tink tink_ sound.  
  
“Would you hold onto it?” Connor asks. “I’d like to fit it back on after the mission.”  
  
Hank bends over and pockets the small ring. “Why are you so attached to it?”

“It…it’s always been there.” Connor runs a finger over the now smooth spot on his skin.

Hank keeps his hand in his pocket, pressing the LED between his finger and thumb. “I’ll make sure I don’t lose it, or Sumo doesn’t eat it, okay?”  
  
Connor doesn’t respond. He changes his hair over to Mark’s hair. “Guess I’m ready.”

—

Connor meets up with Mittz a block away from where The Fox frequents. It’s an upscale club with plenty of security, but Mittz seems undeterred. “Follow my lead,” he mutters, blowing out a puff of smoke as he stomps out his cigarette. He actually _looks_ at Connor for the first time since he arrived. He’s greeted by a trendier Connor, with an artfully disheveled style. “Least you don’t look like a fuckin’ narc.”

“Thank you,” Connor says genuinely. Then, after a beat: “My name is Mark Francois.”  
  
Mittz rolls his eyes as they walk. “Yeah, the captain made sure to drill _that_ into me before I got here.”

“Will The Fox be there tonight?” Connor asks as he matches up his footsteps with Mittz.  
  
He shrugs, “Maybe. As long as he knows I haven’t gotten caught.”

Connor rubs his hands together as a way to get out some of the nerves from his system.   
  
They arrive at the club, a long line of well-dressed people and androids alike waiting to get in. Mittz forgoes the line, making a nod at the bouncer. Connor tries to also goes past, but he’s blocked by the bouncer. “Where do you think you’re going?” He asks in a baritone voice.

“He’s with me.” Mittz says, and Connor can’t help but think of going to his first crime scene with Hank. The bouncer lets him through.

While it’s still early in the night, the club isn’t as full as it could be. Connor wonders why the other people standing outside haven’t been let in. That being said, navigating through the dance floor still proves difficult for Connor. It’s hard not to knock into people and maneuver through the crowd. Mittz weaves through the scene with no problem, and a part of Connor wonders if he’s going to try and make a run for it. Connor quickens his pace. He’s thankful his vision can adjust at a moment’s notice to the lighting. The thumping bass of the speakers start to mess with his sound processing. And the wire…

—  
  
“Fuck, I _really_ hope Fox is in a quieter room…” Hank says with a groan, taking off his headphones.  
  
“Tell me about it.” Chris turns down the volume.

The two of them are in the inconspicuous van a few blocks down, just behind an old factory. The DPD figured they didn’t need more than two people for the set-up. Captain Fowler said it was pretty low risk.   
  
Hank hopes to agree with that by the end of the night. He idly checks his phone, listening in on if the club music will stop blasting through the speakers.

“Lieutenant,” Chris says, picking up the headphones. Hank shoves his phone in his pocket, eager to get back to work.

—

Connor and Mittz get through to the VIP section of the club, where the music bumped through the walls with a muffled thuds. Connor adjusted his auditory functions once he was _for sure_ out of the dance floor.  
  
“Follow my lead,” Mittz says again, quietly. They make their way to a room on the balcony. Mittz uses a keycard to enter the room.  
  
_The Fox’s Den_ … Connor thinks as he passes through the doorway.

“Holy _shit_! Mittz, I haven’t seen you in a couple of days— I thought you got arrested or some shit!” The voice came from a man in the middle of the room, flanked by men and women alike. He’s pretty average looking; average stature and build, plain face. Out of a line up, a human wouldn’t be able to pick him out.  He looks entirely unimpressive except for his shock of natural orange hair.  
  
And, suddenly, obviously, it all makes sense to Connor.  
  
Curiously, Connor tries to scan his face, but his optical components are failing him. All that comes up when he tries it is glitching static. The culprit must be the wire in his system, which took an incredible amount of time to nestle between his biocomponents.

Mittz scoffs, breaking Connor’s concentration on The Fox’s face. He settles into playing aloof as he listens to Mittz explain himself. “Yeah fuckin’ right, like the DPD could catch me. Just had to lay low for a while.”

Paying no mind to his excuse, The Fox’s eyes drift over to Connor. “Who the fuck’s this?”  
  
Mittz claps a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “This is Mark. He’s one of those….defective androids.”  
  
“S’that so?” The Fox leans forward, extending his hand to Mark.

Mark nods. “I was one of the original Jericho members.” They hold a tight grip, each staring at each other, waiting to see which one breaks first.

The Fox releases his grip. “Ah, _Jericho_ ,” he sighs thoughtfully. “God fucking bless them. I owe Markus a thanks.” He looks around the room of excess. Mark tries to focus on business.  
  
“Well, I actually have a market—”  
  
The Fox directs his attention back to Mark. “What were you doing before you deviated, Mark? You look so _familiar_ . What was your purpose?”  
  
Mark clenches his jaw. “I deviated before I even completed a mission.”  
  
“‘Mission.’” He repeats.

“I am an RK800 model. I was originally designed to assist—” Mark stops himself, not wanting to throw the word ‘police’ into a room full of drug dealers. “—detectives. Homicides.” It’s not technically a lie, but Mark holds his gaze on The Fox until he breaks into a smile.  
  
“Oh, so some CSI shit then?” He grins. Mark couldn’t help but notice how straight his teeth are. Not exactly the teeth of a drug _user_.

Mark smiles slightly, easing a little bit. “You could say that.”

“Scoot down, Juice.” The Fox calls out to one of the guys on the couch. “Let’s make some room for Mark. Mittz, you too!”

  
Mark makes his way for the couch, squeezing in between The Fox and Juice. Mittz finds a spot further down.

“So, tell me about your business plan.” He throws an arm around Mark, who wasn’t exactly expecting to be this close to The Fox so quickly.  
  
—

Hank listens to Connor explain his plan. Has some friends from Jericho, want to score some Nox, and so on and so forth. He’s heard this spiel a million times from Connor, running the script over and over before bedtime as if he’ll forget it. As if he _could_ forget it.  
  
What Hank wasn’t planning for was listening to The Fox get friendly with Connor. Hank and Chris kept getting feedback of what they both can assume is a hand running along Connor’s clavicle. Hank wonders where Fox’s other hand is. He groans lowly, and Chris takes notice.

“Is everything okay, lieutenant?” Chris asks warily.

Hank’s not normally the jealous type. He can count on one hand the times that he’s gotten close to punching someone out for getting too handsy with his significant other. And he can also count on one hand the times that it’s worked out well in the end. Normally, these situations would happen off the clock, at a bar. It would be in a place where he could control what he was seeing. Here, in this surveillance van, he’s in the dark. Connor and Fox seem to be chatting idly, with Fox’s voice too close to the wire.

Hank stands. “Gonna have a smoke. It sounds like everything’s pretty calm.”

Hank hasn’t smoked in months, maybe longer. It’s a bad habit, of course, but he seems to be a magnet for bad habits. It’s the one area of his habits that has remained strictly casual. He’ll smoke when he’s had too many, or when he’s incredibly tense, or when he needs to stay up and just coffee isn’t cutting it. He flicks his lighter out, putting the flame to the end of his cigarette, and inhales slowly. As he exhales, he looks up at the Detroit sky, polluted by the abundance of city lights. He eases a little, reminding himself that Connor’s on a mission. He also reminds himself not to let his own feelings interfere with what’s going on. He stubs out his cigarette, only half smoked, and gets back into the van.

—

Mark and The Fox have set up a plan. He’s going to give him half of a batch at the end of the night (only a small amount, so that he can build up trust with him), and one of his henchmen will drop off the remainder behind a nondescript building tomorrow night. The Fox’s hand has made its place around Mark’s shoulder. It’s not an entirely unwelcome weight on him— Mark needs to be comfortable around him— but it also keeps him planted on the couch. If Mark moved slightly, he’d feel The Fox’s fingers dig into his shoulder.

“So Mark,” The Fox said loudly due to the music from the club seeping through the walls of the lounge, “What kind of things were you supposed to do for murders and stuff?”  
  
“I never did anything,” Mark interjected quickly, reminding The Fox that he was _definitely not_ a police bot, “but I was programmed to analyze things pertaining to the crime scenes. Blood, primarily.”  
  
“Oh _shit_ , you can analyze blood?” The Fox grins, baring his white teeth again. “How do you do that?”

“I just—” Mark brings his two fingers to his mouth. “—do that.”  
  
The Fox and a few other people on the couch laugh. “You _taste it_?! Man, what the fuck are those guys at CyberLife doing!”

Mark, smiling lopsidedly, shrugs.

The Fox motions to the lines of white powder at the table. “Can you lick that?”  
  
“I can, although I know it’s already cocaine. There’s no point.”  
  
“Go on, man, show off your detective skills for me.”

Mark, resisting to roll his eyes, swipes two fingers across the table. He analyzes the sample with his tongue. _3,4-methylenedioxy-methamphetamine,_ the pop up in his vision states. _MDMA, also known as Ecstacy or Molly._

“That...isn’t cocaine. It’s Molly.” Mark says dumbly. He flicks the remaining powder off his hands.

Everyone on the couch seems to have good fun with that. “Fuck, it’s a shame you androids can’t get fucked up on anything but what I have.” The Fox says, almost wistfully. “Then again, what I have for humans and androids is some special kind of shit.” His hand wraps around the back of Mark’s neck as he continues. “Now that androids are people, they have money. They can buy drugs. They can get _high_ . Drugs make androids more human. It expands their robot brains, Mark.” The Fox taps at Mark’s head with his other hand. “Maybe I can also expand _your_ mind sometime soon.”

Mark smiles slightly despite his stress levels rising.

—

The night for Mark and Mittz ends shortly after that. The Fox hands off Mark’s portion of Nox before he leaves— the drug itself is in small clear containers about the size of Mark’s synthetic fingernail. Mark examines the color of Nox. As expected, the color of the liquid is pitch black. It might be darker than any shade of black he has seen before. The blackness is so deep, it absorbs all light and pigment. A black hole right in the palm of his hand. Mittz inconspicuously hides them in his backpack, assuring The Fox he’ll hand them to Mark and his Jericho buddies when they part ways.  
  
The two of them walk back to the van. When they reach a safe enough distance from the club, Mark shifts back into Connor.

“I think that went well, Mittz.” Connor says positively, shoving his hands in his pockets and grabbing his coin.  
  
“Yeah, surprised you didn’t fuck it up.” Mittz scoffs, handing Connor the Nox backpack. “Here you go.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the short walk.  
  
—

Chris has Mittz sit in the front seat with Hank and Connor in the back, holding the recording equipment. It’s late, well past 1 am now. Hank doesn’t seem sluggish; he keeps looking at Connor intently.  
  
“You gonna keep your hair like that?” Hank asks low enough so that neither Chris nor Mittz will hear.

“Would you like me to?” Connor asks in just as low of a tone. His _Mark_ tone.

Hank wraps his hand around Connor’s knee, pressing the pads of his fingers into his leg. This sensation is remarkably different than The Fox’s touches. It’s welcoming, _calming_ even. “Yeah,” Hank whispers. “I would.”

—

Chris and Hank pass off Mittz to one of the officers on duty before locking up the recording equipment and the backpack in the evidence room. “Think Jeffrey will let us come in later tomorrow?” Hank asks.

Chris yawns. “Not a chance, Lieutenant. Then again, it’s not like that’ll stop you.”  
  
Hank claps Chris on the shoulder. “You fuckin’ got that right. See you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good night Hank.” Chris says with a sigh.

—

 

The ride home for Hank and Connor was pretty insignificant since the conversations were recorded. There wasn’t much to talk about. Connor could _sense_ something from Hank. He couldn’t place it, but he was sure to find out when they walked in the door.

“Did you get all that molly shit out of your mouth?” Hank asks as he lets Sumo out to do his business.

“Of course. I sanitized my mouth as Mittz and I were leaving the club.” Connor answers, setting his boots next to Hank’s. “Why do you ask?”  
  
In one quick motion, Hank shuts the door and shoves Connor against it. Hank kisses Connor hungrily, pressing his body against his. Their tongues swirl, and Connor revels in the feeling of Hank’s big hands all over him. One of his hands runs through Connor’s messy hair and tugs back, breaking the kiss.  
  
“You smoked earlier.” Connor says plainly. No shade of judgement; he can probably guess why Hank did.  
  
“I was getting real fuckin’ tense hearing that Fox asshole put his hands on you.” Hank says, lips brushing against Connor’s neck. He hates the stark truth of the statement, but he’s glad he’s not looking at Connor when he says it.

“Hank, you know it’s not like—” Connor starts to say until Hank pushes him back in a kiss. He starts rutting against Connor’s flat groin. Hank’s hands find their way around Connor’s flanks, scratching at Connor’s skin under his clothing. Connor moans softly into Hank’s mouth.

Hank pulls away just enough so that his whole field of vision is just Connor. All Connor. “You wanna put on your dick tonight, Con?”

“I—” What a night this has been. Connor’s glad he can switch gears so quickly, or else he’d get whiplash something awful (so to speak). “Yes. Yes—of course.”

Hank releases his hold on Connor, the two of them missing that pressure. “I gotta let Sumo in and do some other stuff. I’ll meet you in our room.”  
  
Connor nods, making his way to the bedroom. He closes the door and sifts through his side of the closet. In one of the drawers, hidden amongst with many other identical and perfectly folded socks, lies different genital biocomponents. Connor picks out his standard phallus component, nestled amongst a couple of vaginal components and a slightly larger penis component (for when Hank is in a _different_ mood). He closes the drawer and tugs down his underwear and trousers, detaching his plain groin and swiftly putting on the other component.

As the part’s functions uploaded to his system, Connor thought about how Hank was acting. He can’t remember the last time Hank was so _aggressive_ , so raring to go. He gets in these modes, normally after catching a perp after a long cat-and-mouse game, but this time is different. It’s more desperate, in a way. Connor paid no mind to how The Fox was getting friendly with him; that was as Mark. He hopes this doesn’t cause issues in the long run of what he does as Mark and what he does as Connor. Hank, obviously, knows the difference.  
  
So why did he tell Connor to keep his Mark hair on display?  
  
There’s a knock on the bedroom door. Connor breaks his train of thought as he pulls up his pants and briefs over his fully installed biocomponent. He sits on the edge of the bed, his pants still undone, legs spread wide. “Come in,” Connor says.

“Heh, I _sure will_ ,” Hank says to himself although Connor hears it. When he sees Connor there to greet him, his smile goes wide. “Look at you, my _god—_ ” Hank rubs his cock through his jeans, making his way to the bed. Instead of getting on the bed, he kneels in front of Connor. He pulls Connor’s briefs down just enough for his hard cock to be exposed. Hank goes down on him without another word.  
  
Connor tilts his head back, focusing on the sensation of Hank’s tongue pressing on the underside of his cock. This is a change of pace in more ways than one. When Connor wears his dick, it’s more often that Hank gets a blowjob first. Not that Connor minds; he might honestly prefer it. Using his mouth for something, letting Hank relax and get comfortable with Connor’s lips wrapped around him…

Although tonight it’s exactly what the two of them want. Hank’s beard tickles at Connor’s groin as he tries to go all the way down. This component isn’t necessarily challenging, at least that’s what Hank insists. Connor doesn’t try to tell him he doesn’t _have_ to go all the way down, but he doesn’t want to hurt Hank’s pride.

Hank pulls off of Connor’s cock with a _pop_. He looks up at him, stroking him slightly. “ _Fuck_ Connor,” he mutters, “you should see yourself.”  
  
Connor runs a hand through Hank’s tresses. “I could say the same for you as well.”

Hank grins, tongue running over his bottom lip, and he goes down again. Connor tugs slightly at Hank’s hair as he’s enveloped back into the warmth of his mouth. He’s not entirely sure where this enthusiasm for oral came from. It’s different when he’s equipped with his vaginal biocomponent; Hank always insists he’s more of a cunning linguist (a phrase that took way too long for Connor to decipher). Connor tries to push the thoughts of _why_ Hank is doing it out of his mind.

Connor feels Hank’s hands push him back onto the bed, sprawling out into the freshly washed sheets and blankets. _It would be a shame to dirty them,_ Connor thinks before he feels Hank’s hands all over him now, and the more rational parts of his programming shut down. He strips Connor’s pants off, pushing him up to the head of the bed. Hank stands somewhat uneasily (too long kneeling on the floor; he should have snagged a pillow) and he undresses himself as he watches Connor. Connor, with his long skinny limbs stretched on the bed, the hem of his sweater covering the head of his cock. Connor, with messy hair and tensing fingers. Connor, with more moles than Hank could ever kiss.  
  
Connor. Mark.  
  
Connor.

Hank, now fully nude save for some party socks, crawls onto the bed. “Take off your sweater,” he directs, situating his body between Connor’s long legs. Connor obliges, tossing his sweater on top of the hamper. It smells of cologne, sweat, and cigarettes. Not entirely dissimilar to Hank’s own musk, but that’s something that he’d drown in a hundred times over if he were capable of that. Before he knows it, Hank’s lips are back on him, planting kisses down to his chest. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” Hank says, taking detours to kiss the speckling of moles on his torso.

Connor’s eyelids flutter as Hank’s lips touch his skin. “ _Ah_ ,” he gasps slightly. “So are you.”  
  
Hank scoffs, his breath hot against the android’s skin. “Not in the way you are.”  
  
Connor doesn’t want to press this further. “So you say.”  
  
“I _do_ say,” Hank says, wanting to put a button on the interaction. He slinks down to Connor’s cock, still hard (of course). “Hand me the lube, will you Con?”

“You don’t want me to—?” Connor cranes his head up from where he’s laying.  
  
Hank waves his hand. “Don’t need it.” Connor tosses him the small bottle from the bedside table. He pops the cap and squirts some lube onto his finger. He circles his finger around Connor’s hole. Connor keeps his hands resting on his chest, completely unhurried. Hank sticks a finger inside slowly, watching Connor’s face in the meantime. He twitches his mouth a little, getting used to the sensation. After some time, Hank sticks another finger inside, moving in and out of Connor slightly. Connor’s hands try to remain still, to not grip at his cock or at Hank’s hair as he fucks him open with his fingers.  
  
Watching this whole scene never gets old for Hank. For tonight, it’s especially true. “I’m so fucking lucky that I get to be the only person _on Earth_ that sees you like this.” Hank says, curling his well slicked fingers inside Connor. He’s biting his lip, trying not to let moans escape him. Hank takes his other hand and reaches for the bottle of lube on the bed. He removes his fingers from Connor, who moans slightly at the empty feeling. That feeling doesn’t last long, as Hank slowly presses his well-slicked cock into Connor. He pushes himself in slowly, taking great care to look at every microexpression on Connor’s face. “Fucking _Christ_ Connor, I’ve lubed you up and you’re still so _tight—_ ” Connor wraps his legs around Hank’s back, his feet resting just above his ass, causing Hank to go in deeper. Hank swears at this, lowering himself parallel with the mattress. Hank breathes against Connor’s ear, and he starts to pick up the pace in his thrusts.

“I’m the only one who fucks you like this. The only one who can do this to you.” Hank sighs into Connor’s ear, emboldened by the sensation of thrusting into Connor this deeply. “You’re all _mine._ ”  
  
Connor moans at that declaration, squeezing his legs around Hank some more. He wraps his arms around Hank’s shoulders, completely enveloped by only Hank. He is Hank’s, and Hank is his.

“I’m— _ah_ —all yours—!” Connor whines, focusing on exactly how much of Hank is entering him with each thrust.

“Haah, that’s right baby,” Hank tugs at Connor’s messy hair.

“Ca—call—” Connor tries to say, vocal program stuttering with the thrusts.

“What is it Con?” Hank asks, sucking at his neck.

“ _Call me Mark_!” Connor moans out, shuddering. He is right on the edge, and Hank likes to think of himself as a gentleman.  
  
“Oh _Mark_ ,” Hank groans lowly. That’s all it takes for Connor to come. As he comes, he tightens around Hank’s length. “Ohh, oh _Mark_!” Hank moans sincerely, pumping his load into Connor.

For a brief moment, Hank could have sworn he blacked out. Panting and sweating, he slips out of Connor’s grip as he rolls onto his side of the bed. Connor seems to have soft rebooted; Hank dares to wonder if he called him _Mark Francois_ as he came. He’d probably have to foot the CyberLife bill to get his wiring all fixed up. Around the same time that Hank was able to get his muscles working again that Connor’s eyelids started to flutter. Hank rolls onto his side, looking at Connor. He’s all too prim and proper for someone who just got fucked. With the soft reboot, his hair returned to its normal slicked back hair.

Hank lies boneless on the bed while Connor gets up. “Hank,” he says, perfectly polite, “we should really change the sheets.” His rationality has returned, it seems. He removes his phallus biocomponent, making a note later to wash it off.  
  
Hank buries his face into the mattress. “They’re fine,” he responds, his voice muffled by the cushioning.

He pulls his lips downwards, an attempt at a frown. “They’re not. You smell like cigarettes. The _sheets_ smell like cigarettes.”  
  
Hank props his head up with his arm, sprawled out on the bed. “That’s not _all_ it smells like. That’s not all you smell like.” He scratches at his belly. “I’ll at least shower.”  
  
“I’ll change the sheets, then.” Connor knows exactly what kind to bring out— the fancy 700 thread count sheets in the back of the closet, undoubtedly leftovers from Hank’s marriage.

“You don’t want to shower?” Hank asks with a groan, getting up from the bed. He looks down at his impression in the mattress. Quite a cuddle puddle in the middle of the bed. _Eugh_.

“It’s not that, it’s—you said ‘I’ll’ instead of ‘we’ll.’” He latches his neutral groin component back between his legs, comfortable for Hank to see his process in full view. Progress.

“C’mon, Con, let’s—as in let _us_ —take a shower.” Hank walks across the hall, leaving the door open for Connor to follow.  
  
Connor quickly changes the sheets before slipping inside the bathroom. The mirror is already fogged up with steam. He pulls the shower curtain open a little. Hank’s already scrubbing at his shaggy hair with some fancy conditioner that Connor insisted on getting while they were at the store.  
  
_“Hank, I love your hair this length, but I’ll love it even more when it’s taken care of.”_

 _“‘Taken care of?’ What the fuck do you mean by_ that _?”_  
_  
_ “...Hank.”

 _“Fine, whatever, if it’ll make you_ that _happy. Christ...”_

The scent of apricots fills Connor’s olfactory sensors. He sneaks his way to get under the shower head. The hot water feels nice on his chassis, although it’s unnecessary for his methods of cleaning. The scents of the soaps and scrubs are too good to pass up, especially after hanging in a smoke-filled room for hours. He steals some of the fancy shampoo for himself.

As he scrubs his synthetic hair, he thinks about the climax of the sex. _His_ climax. _Hank’s_ climax. He wasn’t quite sure why he asked that of Hank. When he was Mark before during sex, it was different. He did it as a way of getting under Hank’s skin and then some. _This_ time though…

“Hey Hank?” Connor asks, his voice echoing against the shower tiles.

“Hold on one sec, Con.” Hank gets back under the shower, eyes shut to prevent any soap getting in his eyes. He rinses out his hair thoroughly, finally opening his eyes again. “What is it?”

“I...about what I said. During the sex.”

“What’d you say?”  
  
“I’m sure you know which part I’m talking about. The ‘Mark’ part.” It’s now Connor’s turn to rinse his hair out.

“ _Ahh_ , that,” Hank says as if he’d completely forgotten. “I think it’s better if we don’t talk about it.” There were a _couple_ of things he didn’t want to talk about concerning the sex. Easier to obfuscate sometimes.

“But I don’t know _why_ I asked you to call me that.” Connor slicks his hair back, his lock of hair obeying for once. “I mean—”

“Connor, I know it’s your nature to analyze everything, but I really think we should just leave it. Humans, myself included, ask some really fuckin’ weird shit of their partner during sex.”

This piques Connor’s interest. “Such as?”

Hank laughs lowly, reaching for the body wash. “Another time, Con.” Hank knows that if Connor’s LED was still in, it would be a solid yellow.


	3. Chapter 3

In the early afternoon at the station (Chris was right about Hank coming in late), Hank takes the Nox samples down to the lab. Johnson, one of the technicians there, takes the backpack and dumps out the pods of the drug.   
  
“Johnson,” Hank asks while rubbing his beard, “What kind of things are you looking for in Nox? Same to what you were looking for with Red Ice?  Or somethin’ more like fentanyl?” The two of them go way back professionally.

He shrugs. “I’m not quite sure yet. Toxicology reports haven’t come back on the first few Nox victims. We just know the victims overdosed on Nox based on the other evidence. We could be looking at the chemical make up being close to something like black tar heroin. I’ll have to get to work to give you an answer.”

Hank nods, fixating on the pods on the table. They look like little black marbles. Hank’s almost entranced by the sophistication of the packaging. Fox knows what the fuck he’s doing.   
  
“...That’s your cue to leave, Anderson.”

Hank holds up his hands in defeat. “Friendly as always, Johnson.”

—

That evening, Connor and Mittz went to meet up with one of The Fox’s guys to get the rest of the batch. It was in the rust belt holdovers from decades past, before CyberLife swooped in and glossed over the crippling depression of Detroit. “This is near Jericho.” Connor says, reminiscing on the ship as if it were a past life. In a way, it kind of was; back when he was a machine.

“I don’t care,” Mittz spits out. He seems antsy. He’s keeping his pace brisk, keeping a steady distance ahead of Connor as they walk to the meet up point. Connor shifts his hair over to Mark’s as they get within a block of the location. “Shit, I see Juice! Be cool,” he says as if _Mark_ is the one who needs to keep his cool.

Juice, a nickname Mark is entirely unsure of, stands just on the outside of the dilapidated factory. He blends in well with his territory; Mark’s eyes adjust to the darkness. He watches Mittz get closer to Juice, gait uneven.   
  
“‘Sup man?” Mittz asks, giving an intricate handshake. Mark watches it closely just in case he needs to replicate it later.

“Nothin’ much bro. Freezing my nuts off out here, so let’s make this quick.” Juice says, reaching into his backpack and pulling out an inconspicuous package.

“Mark, you have the cash?” Mittz asks, nerves seeping into the question.   
  
Mark hurries forward, pulling out a wad of bills the DPD issued to him. “I’ll have the rest later next week.” He passes it over to Juice, who in turn gives him the package.

Juice flips through the money, counting it. He nods, saying, “Your friends at Jericho are _good_ customers.”

“Oh, I definitely know it.” Mark says, pocketing the package.   
  
“So are we done here? We’re good to go?” Mittz interjects. “The Fox doesn’t need us or anything?”   
  
Juice laughs uneasily. “The fuck’s your problem, Mittz?”

Mittz laughs just as uneasily for a little bit too long. “Nothin’ Juice.”  
  
He closes in on Mittz’s space. “You’ve been acting real fucking weird tonight. You wanna share with the class what’s been happening?”   
  
Mark decides to help out. “He’s just been tired, Juice. Stressed out.”

“Why’re you stressed out? Are you working with the fuckin’ _cops_?”

As soon as that word escapes Juice’s lips, Mittz pulls out a gun from his waistband. Mark isn’t entirely sure _how_ or _where_ he got it. He’s sneakier than he lets on. He’s also more squirrelly than he lets on. He turns off the safety and points it at Juice.  
  
Juice, pretty unfazed by having a gun pointed at him (Connor can relate), sighs and says, “What the fuck are you doing?’   
  
Mittz, hands shaking says, “I can’t take this anymore. I just fucking started and I can’t—”

Mark intervenes, snatching the gun away from him without much trouble. Mittz falls to the ground in the process, scrambling away from the other two.   
  
Mark covertly looks at the model of the gun. It’s a glock .22, a standard issue from the DPD. Mittz must have swiped it from one of the guards as they were taking him out of his holding cell.

He looks over to Mittz, sweating despite the freezing Detroit night, crawling backwards away from Juice. “I don’t fuckin’ get you, Mittz. You’ve been loyal and level headed ever since you started working with The Fox, and now you’re practically about to piss yourself, saying you cant do _this_ anymore?’ He sighs, reaching into his backpack and pulling out a gun. “You’re a liability."

“ _No—!_ ”

Mark tries to intercept the situation to no avail. Juice fires a round right into Mittz’s skull. The shot echoes off the walls of the Detroit factory behind them.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Mark says.

Juice scoffs. “Yeah, sure. It was either that, or all of us getting fucking arrested since Mittz was obviously working for the cops.”

Examining the gun again, Mark decides to use this to his advantage. “The gun he had was issued by the Detroit Police Department. He could have stole it—”

“ _Or_ he could have been working with the cops.”

There’s a pause between the two of them.

“Wasn’t he your friend?” Mark asks neutrally, glancing over at Mittz’s lifeless body.

“He _was_ until tonight.” Juice puts his gun back in his backpack. He switches gears, clapping a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “You saved my life dude. Thank you.”

“Just trying to look out for you,” Mark smiles despite knowing if it was the inverse situation he would also save Mittz.

“Shit, I think Fox’s at the club. We should stop by and tell him what happened.”

Mark, knowing Hank and Chris are groaning at the prospect of working another late night, agrees with Juice. If he said no, especially after tonight, it would look suspicious. “Let’s go.”

As the two of them walk to Juice’s car, Mark sends a message to Hank’s phone.

—

Chris groans, checking the time. “Lieutenant, I don’t know if I can work another late night like this. I got a baby at home, and my wife can’t keep—”

Hank, running a hand through his hair at the state of this mission, says, “Look, I’m not too happy about it either. It’s bad enough that we now have a fucking homicide on our hands.”

Hank’s phone pings. It’s from Connor. _I’ve got this under control. You and Chris can go home. I’ll take a taxi tonight._   
  
Hank reads the text aloud to Chris, save for the last part. “You’re relieved from your duties, Officer Miller.”   
  
Thankful for this, Chris stands and stretches. “I’ll send a couple of officers over for Mittz’s body. I’ll let them know it’s from our operation.”

Hank nods, standing up to stretch as well.   
  
“Are you going home?” Chris asks.

He pauses for a moment, looking back at the equipment. “Is there any way for me to attach this stuff at home?”  
  
—   
  
Just like the previous night, the club is just as packed. Juice and Mark weave through the dancefloor of sweaty bodies and neon lights. The bass is just as loud as it was before. Mark detects that it’s surprisingly not the same music playing.   
  
When they get up to the VIP room, The Fox is waiting for them with open arms. “Mark, bring it in!” He says, wrapping his arms around Mark. Mark pats him on the back lightly. “You saved Juice’s fucking life! We need to celebrate!”   
  
“There’s really no—” Mark starts. The Fox shushes him.   
  
“Just relax, man.” He pushes Mark back in the center of the couch, just as full of people as there was before. Mark wonders if they have jobs, lives, or if they’re just at the will of The Fox.

The Fox watches Mark, who’s sitting on the edge of the couch, his hands resting on his knees. “ _Fuck,”_ he says, getting Mark’s attention, “I wish I could get you fucked up. All I have is, well…”

Mark held up his hands. “It’s fine. I don’t know if I’m in that kind of a mood tonight.”

“I just wanna be a good host and all.” The Fox says, kneeling at the table and cutting up a line. “But suit yourself.” He rolls up a one hundred dollar bill and snorts the line of what Mark is assuming is coke.   
  
As he rubs the remaining powder on his gums— Mark was right in his deductions— he motions around the room. “Mi casa es su casa,” he says, voice slightly slurring due to his finger still being in his mouth.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Mark says, sitting back into the couch, people’s shoulders sandwiching him into the cushioning.

—

A couple hours have passed. Mark is not quite sure how long he has to stay until he can leave. He doesn’t want to raise any suspicions, so he waits until the couch is pretty empty to get up and try to sneak out.   
  
An arm wraps around his shoulders. “Hey Mark,” The Fox slurs, “where do you think you’re going?” He’s fucked up on who knows what by this point. Mark has spent the night turning down offers for drugs and alcohol, as for some reason he needed to remind people he’s an android. Thankfully, no one has offered Nox to him.”  
  
“I have to—” Mark thinks of a good excuse. “I have to deliver the Nox to my friends.”

“You’re so _business_ oriented. Just relax! Come sit over here.” He motions to the large window overlooking the dance floor. It’s still just as active, if not more so than when Mark first got here.

They both sit down at the edge of the window. “So, _Mark_ , do you have any questions for me?”  
  
Mark thinks for a moment. “Just one.” One that isn’t related to the operation, that is. “Why The Fox?”

“What?”

“Your nickname. Why do you call yourself The Fox?”

He shrugs, thinking deeply about his reasoning. Eventually he points at his hair. “Mostly this, but then there’s the phrase ‘crazy like a fox,’ ‘eyes like a fox.’ Shit like that.”

Mark nods, thinking for a moment. Maybe he could ask the question he’s really wanted to ask since his facial recognizer is compromised. “What’s your real name?”  
  
The Fox, despite being fucked up, laughs and shakes his head. “No real names here, but since you saved Juice’s life I’ll tell you part of my name. My first name is Jean-Pierre.”

Mark’s eyes go wide. “My middle name is Francois!”

“But you’re an android! Why do you need a middle name?”

“I just thought Mark Francois sounded nice.” Mark feels his cheeks get a bit warm. Jean-Pierre doesn’t notice in the lighting.   
  
He smiles at Mark. “It _does_ sound nice.” He reaches out a hand to touch Mark’s warm cheek. “You’re warm.”   
  
Mark tenses at this touch. His eyes trying to examine what kind of expression The Fox has on his face.”I...my temperatures seem to have increased from being in this room.” He gets closer to Mark, their lips about to touch. Mark pulls away, causing Jean-Pierre to stumble at the sudden movement.

“What’s the matter?” He asks, slightly annoyed.

“I just. I’m not—” Mark struggles to think of an excuse. He stutters to give his CPU some time to come up with a good enough lie.

“You’re what, you’re not interested in _humans_? Could have fucking fooled me. Last night you didn’t turn away from all the attention I was giving you.” He takes a swig of his drink, something resembling a lighter colored thirium.

“No, no, no, it’s not that. I’m interested in humans. I just—” Mark’s mind flashes back to Mittz’s body lying on the frosted grass. “My friend died tonight.” He decides to clarify for some reason: “Mittz.”

“Shit, yeah, I forgot.” Jean-Pierre says, honestly sounding like he _did_ forget. “Makes sense why you’re not ready to fuck."

Mark is feeling every other emotion _but_ horny, although that’s beside the point. “I really should go. My friends—”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, your _friends_. Go on then. I’ll see you soon. Getting a new shipment in a few weeks.” He says, rubbing his nose.

Mark stands all too quickly. “I’ll be back in a few days.”

As he turns to go, he hears The Fox call his name. “Mark!”

He looks back at him with the same indifference he gave Hank before. It feels like it’s been a lifetime since then. “What is it?”

“Do you have a number I could reach you at?”

Mark shakes his head, pointing to his temple. “I don’t need one. You could give me your number though.”

“Here, I’ll give you my burner number.” He pulls out a marker from his pocket and motions for Mark to hold out his hand. He scribbles down the number all too largely and puts the cap back on. “There.” He says with a smile.

Mark examines the drying ink. “Thanks.”

—

Connor orders a taxi and gets home a little after 3 am. Before he walks into the house, his hair goes back to its usual style. When he walks in the door, Sumo is there to greet him. “Hey boy,” he says lowly before opening the door again to let him out. After closing the front door, he looks over at the couch to see Hank in a deep sleep. It seems that he brought the recording equipment home with him, a makeshift set up on the coffee table. The headphones are still around his neck. Connor wonders for a moment if he heard The Fox really put a move on him, which makes his thirium pump work a little faster. There’s a half finished glass of whiskey next to him, which Connor finds strange. Hank isn’t one to leave his drink unattended, even when he’s tired. Nevertheless, quietly picks up the glass and pads over to the kitchen, pouring it out. He glances down and sees Jean-Pierre’s number scrawled on his hand. Connor grabs some dish soap and scrubs it off, having already saved the number as soon as he was done writing it. He lets Sumo back in and goes to wake up Hank.   
  
It’s a much more pleasant wake-up call than the one he gave him when they were first working together. “Hank,” he says quietly. “Wake up. It’s three am.” Hank stirs a little, but doesn’t wake up.

Connor thinks for a moment. He has two options. He can let him sleep here, or he can drag him to the bedroom. Hank’s slept on the couch in the past. He definitely complained about his back the next day.

Dragging him to the bedroom it is.

He takes the headphones from around his neck and places them on the table. Slinging an arm around his shoulder, like he did a little over a year ago, he hoists Hank off of the couch. Finally, Hank wakes up slightly. “I’m not drunk, Connor. Just fucking tired.” His voice sounds raspy from sleep. Hank slings his arm around Connor’s waist despite not needing the extra support. “Glad you’re home.” He says as they pass through to the bedroom.   
  
Connor smiles. “Me too.”   
  
Hank’s out again as soon as his head hits the pillow.

—

The next morning, the two of them arrive at the office around 10 am. Hank makes a detour to drop off the Nox to Johnson in the lab. “Ya find anything yet, Johnson?”  
  
“Good morning to you too, Lieutenant.” He gives Hank a sidelong glance. “And no. I’m going to compare the two later today. The batch you brought in seems clean enough.”

Hank sighs at that. “I see. Connor told me a shipment’s gonna come in a few weeks from now.”

“If I find anything, I’ll let you know.”  
  
“Thanks,” Hank says as he turns to leave. “Oh, and Johnson?”   
  
Johnson looks up from his microscope.

“Good morning.”

—

When Hank gets back to his desk, he sees Connor with a concerned look on his face.

“There’s been three more Nox overdoses.” Connor says, examining the file on his desk. “Two humans and an android.”

“Fuck,” Hank groans. “Just from last night?”  
  
“The last couple of nights. Right when I was working.”

“Look, Con, this takes time. It fucking sucks, but do you know how many overdoses I heard about when working on the Red Ice bust? _Way_ too fuckin’ many. But I had to focus on how many I’d be preventing.”

“Red Ice is still around.” Connor says, closing the file. He doesn’t need to know any more, at least not now.

“Yeah, and Nox will be around even after this. But we’ll be holding people accountable, Connor.” Shit, it’s not even midday and _Hank_ is the one giving _Connor_ encouragement. What’s wrong with this picture?

Connor gets out his coin and rolls it over his knuckles. “I just want to catch The Fox and his whole crew now. I have more than enough evidence.” And, before Hank jumps in, he says “But I know I can’t.”

“You can’t save everyone, Connor.” Hank says with a sigh, snatching the file from Connor’s desk.

“I know.” Connor says softly before pocketing his coin. He sends a text to Jean-Pierre, just a simple _Hello, it’s Mark._ He has a feeling that he won’t be up for another few hours, so he feels comfortable to settle into the other cases he’s neglected.   
  
—

The rest of the day goes along as normal. Connor dives into his caseload, doing nearly a week’s worth of reports in a day. Hank also tries to get Connor to do his paperwork, trying to use his wrists as an excuse, but to no avail.   
  
The two of them forget about The Fox, if only for half a day. The two of them have a pleasant evening to themselves, with them snuggled up on the couch watching  It isn’t until late at night, when they’re tucked in bed, that Connor gets a message from him.   
  
_Meet me in the VIP room ASAP_

Connor pulls himself from sleep mode, making careful movements to get out of bed without Hank noticing. He slips into an outfit from the Mark portion of his closet. Before he leaves, he grabs Hank’s shoulder and shakes him slightly. 

He opens his eyes slightly, greeted by the faint outline of Mark’s curly hair. “What—what time—?”  
  
“It’s late, Hank. I got a text from The Fox to meet him at the usual spot.”   
  
Hank checks his phone on the end table. _2:23 am._ Fuck, it is late. “Do you need backup?”   
  
“I think I’ll be fine. He probably just wants me to drop off his cut of the profits or something. I’ll reach out to you if I need help.”

Hank grabs Mark’s hand and squeezes it slightly. “Be careful.” He says, his eyes closing slowly.  
  
“I always am.” Mark says, then gets up and slinks out of the room.

—

Mark calls for a cab and gets to the club just before 3 am. It’s not as busy as it has been the past couple of nights, day of the week notwithstanding. The bouncer recognizes him from the other times he’s been here and motions him right in. Mark once again weaves through the bodies as he makes his way back to the lounge.   
  
When he gets in, the set up is different as it was before. There’s only around four other people in here, The Fox included. The table, normally filled with bottles and ashtrays, has been cleared off and replaced with a map and a scattering of weapons. The Fox is passing out balaclavas for the rest of the men. Instead of a normal greeting from him, he gives Mark a mask as well.   
  
This isn’t good. Mark is doubly thankful he doesn’t have his LED in. It would be a glowing red, a siren of something going directly against his programming.   
  
“What are you doing?” Mark asks, grabbing the mask from The Fox.  
  
Another guy, Mark tries to remember his name, pipes up. “We found the fucker that arrested Mittz. Officer Terrence Young or something like that.”  
  
Juice puts on his mask and fashions it as a beanie. “We found his address. It’s in some boujee neighborhood.”

“What are you—what are _we_ going to do?” Mark asks, struggling to keep his voice level.   
  
The Fox jumps in at this question. “Ah, we’re not quite sure yet. We _could_ break into his house, rough up his family. Juice wants to just cut the guy’s brakes. He thinks it’d be cleaner.” He grabs a gun from the table, checking the clip. “But I figure, since you’re a detective bot, maybe you can figure out the best way to do this. Reverse engineer this shit, Mark.”   
  
“I don’t— ‘the best way?’” Mark’s thirium pump starts to beat faster.

He loads the full clip back into the pistol. “C’mon, show off your skills.”

Mark has to think of a way out of this and fast. He knows Officer Young. He has two young children. He can’t let anything happen to them _or_ to him. “I really think we should think about this. What good’s it going to do?”

Juice scoffs. “Are you fucking serious? This pig caught one of our own. He turned him against us!”  
  
Mark tilts his head. “I thought you didn’t consider Mittz your friend.”

He stumbles a bit at this. “Yeah, but that’s—the DPD fucks got to him. They pretty much signed his own death warrant for Mittz.”

“Don’t you want to enact revenge, Mark?” The Fox asks, moving in closer.   
  
“This is a bad idea. If anyone gets caught—”

“I think you mean if _you_ get caught.” The fourth man says, looking up from the map. His name is Zone. Mark shared the couch with him for most of his time here, only making small talk with him.   
  
“ _What_?” Mark sputters.

“I think this would be a good initiation for you.” The Fox says, wrapping an arm around Mark’s shoulder. “Did you think I’d just be your supplier and you wouldn’t have to get your hands dirty?”

Mark’s hand balls up into a fist around the mask. There’s no way of getting out of this one, but there’s a _safer_ way of doing things. He looks around the room at the men’s faces, all tough and impatient. If he says no, the consequences could be dire.

He sighs out an unnecessary sigh. “Okay, let’s do it.”   
  
The Fox plants a kiss on the side of Mark’s cheek. “That’s what I’m fucking talking about.”   
  
—

Mark convinces the group to cut Young’s brakes. It would be the easiest way to prevent anything from happening to him or his family. They piled into Jean-Pierre’s souped up car and drove across town to Officer Young’s house. As they drove over, speeding through traffic and just barely following the traffic laws, Mark sends a message to Hank.   
  
_I don’t need backup, but let Officer Young know not to use his car in the morning._

Hank will hear it when he gets up. He just hopes that he’ll wake up before Young does.

The group all but throws Mark and a pair of large wire cutters out near Young’s house. “You’ve got five minutes, Mark. Set a timer with your little robot brain.” He says creeping further down the street, turning his lights off.

The neighborhood is relatively middle class. If it were truly bourgeois, the cops would be on him in a second. Mark makes a run for the bushes near Young’s house. He keeps low to the ground, gripping the handle of the cutters. Maybe if he just _acts_ like he cuts it…

He already let Hank know. There’s no use in crying wolf now. Resigned to his fate, he sneaks under the wheels of the car. Finding the brakes was another challenge. He’s not an auto android, he doesn’t even have his own car. The only times he drives are when Hank has had too many. And even then, that’s becoming much less frequent. Mark runs his hands along where the tires connect to the frame. His fingers catch a cord. _This is probably it._ Mark thinks. _The front brakes are good enough?_ Deciding not to dwell on his limited car knowledge, he cuts the thick wires on the left and right front tires. He scoots his slim figure out from under the car, making a beeline for Jean-Pierre’s all-too-fancy car. He scrambles to the passenger seat, The Fox skidding off back to the club.

“That only took _three_ minutes, dude!” The Fox says, tousling Mark’s hair. “I mean... _fuck_! They weren’t kidding about androids.”

“It was easy enough for me to find the brakes.” Mark replies, setting the wire cutters on the floor of the car. “I only cut the fronts.”  
  
“Ehhh that’ll be fine.” Juice interjects, “I’ve done this enough times to know that’ll still work.”

Mark tries not to think about that statement too much. Instead, he looks at the clock on the car’s display screen. Just after 4:30 am. “It’s getting pretty late.”

The Fox scoffs. “For who? I’d say it’s pretty early.”

“Well, I just.” Mark thinks. “I have to get home and let my dog out.”   
  
“I mean, if you don’t wanna _stay_ with us…”

Mark considers this for a moment. “I’d really like to go home. I have to take care of some things.” 

“Fucking buzzkill.” Zone mutters from the backseat.

“Where do you live?”   
  
_Oh._

“I’ll just take a taxi home. I live pretty far away. Let’s go back to the club?”   
  
The Fox rolls his eyes. “Whatever, man.”

Mark pulls out a wad of cash from his pocket to try to distract them. “Here’s the other half of your cut.”  
  
The Fox doesn’t respond to it. He takes a turn all to sharp back into town.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, realizing i can kill any character i want: ayyy lmao


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ THE TAGS SPECIFICALLY FOR THIS CHAPTER!
> 
> Be safe and enjoy, y'all!

Connor gets home before Hank wakes up, relieved it didn’t take all night.

He lets Officer Young know not to use his car, as Hank never woke up to the message. He offers to pay for the cut brakes, which Young is grateful for.

The day goes on as usual. Paperwork, interrogations, new cases. It’s almost as if last night never happened.  
  
Hank asks about it around lunch time. The two of them are parked outside Chicken Feed, too cold to stand at the tables outside. “So what happened last night?”

Connor furrows his brows, trying to make sense of it himself. “They...The Fox found out who arrested Mittz. They wanted revenge. They made me do it.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Hank says, his mouth full of burger.

“They wanted to break in and intimidate Young, or maybe worse. The Fox let me decide what to do.”  
  
Hank swallows. “Well, you did the right thing. I mean...the most right thing you could do in this instance.”

“I hope I didn’t let him down. He seemed pretty annoyed with me when we got back to the club.”

Scoffing, Hank says, “I wouldn’t worry about it. Sure enough, he’ll be texting you tonight and asking for you to break someone’s kneecaps. I sure as fuck hope not, but he’ll be back to you in no time.”  
  
“Did you ever have to do anything like this when you’re undercover?” Connor looks over at Hank, who’s pondering as he sips his diet pop. (Connor insisted he should get something at least marginally better than his usual.)

“Not that I can remember. I mean, the Red Ice bust was _decades_ ago, Connor. Since then, I never really went undercover. Though I see the appeal of certain types of undercover work.”

Connor raises a brow. “Such as?”

“Mostly the honeypot type shit. You’d be _good_ at something like that.” Hank says with a smile, looking at him through the corner of his eye.

“What is—” Connor stops before he runs a search through his database. “ _Oh!_ ” He said, his cheeks feeling hot.

Hank laughs at him. “Told ya so. I also like how you’re not disputing it.”

“What’s there to dispute?” Connor asks smugly.

Hank’s glad he didn’t have any food in his mouth as he laughs at this, because he’s not entirely sure Connor knows how to perform the Heimlich maneuver.

—

Despite what Hank reassures, Connor doesn’t hear from The Fox for more than a week. There were plenty of times that Connor wanted to send him a message, just to make sure their partnership is still intact. He thinks of different excuses— I need to replenish the supply for my friends, could I help with a drug run, do you need anything from me— but Hank always stopped him from saying anything. “He’ll let you _know_ when he needs you,” he said one night, “Shit like this takes time.”

Connor doesn’t like waiting. With each night he didn’t get anything from Jean-Pierre, his anxiety increased twofold. He wasn’t going into sleep mode, instead staying up and rereading the information on the overdoses and what little they had on Nox. Johnson at the lab still hasn’t completed his research for the two batches; unfortunately, things like that take time. He fumbles with the coin on the kitchen table, over the photographs of the victims. He keeps examining the dead eyes of the androids, their blue hands clutching their thirium pumps. As he examines the human victims, curled up in an almost fetal position, Connor gets a message from The Fox.

_57 W Norton St._

An address on the other side of town from the club they meet at. Connor does a map search of the location. It’s an old warehouse; a garment factory that shut down about ten years ago. His hand tenses up, pressing the coin into his palm. Despite everything saying otherwise, Connor sends a message back.  
  
_I’ll be there_.

He anxiously pulls on some pinstripe pants and a mustard yellow shirt. He pays no mind to be quiet about his movements, as this time it feels even more dire than the last time he got a message from Jean-Pierre.

Connor slams a dresser drawer much too loudly, causing Hank to sit up in bed. “You’re going out?”

“Yes,” Connor says, pulling on some socks and grabbing his boots from the closet. He had put these shoes away days ago in an attempt to clear his mind. “I have to go to 57 West Norton Street.”

Hank rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Do you—should I—”

“I think it would be imperative if you did. Perhaps not right away, but don’t wait up for me.” Connor’s speaking a little quicker than usual, more tense.

Hank turns on the light next to him and checks the time on his phone. It’s around 1 am. He sits at the side of the bed and stretches. “ _Agh_ Christ,” he groans.

Connor’s just about done lacing up his boots. “I’m going to call a taxi. I suggest you park a couple blocks away from the garment factory.”

Hank looks over at Connor with a concerned look. “I...he asked you to meet up at a garment factory? Fuck, Connor, are you sure you want only me as backup?”

Connor stands and stares back at Hank. “I’m well aware I’m walking into _something_ , but…. I can handle myself.” He reassures, although it sounds like he’s saying that more for himself than for Hank. “I’m ready to leave. Do you need me to send the address to you?”  
  
“Nah, I got it,” Hank says, typing the address into his phone. Connor stops in his tracks on his way out the door. “What is it?”  
  
He turns and looks at Hank, his brown eyes making micro-movements as he takes in his vision of Hank. He moves over to him, placing his soft hands on either side of Hank’s face, and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s a deep kiss; Connor pressing his lips down hard on Hank’s. It says everything that Connor is too afraid to say. When they break, Hank whispers, “I’ll be there, don’t worry.”

Connor nods, pulling his hands away from Hank reluctantly. A thin blue light passes over his hair, going back to Mark’s. When Hank first saw the hairstyle and look Connor chose for Mark, it was exciting, _arousing_ even. Now, seeing him nervous and apprehensive just fills Hank with dread.

A car honks outside. “My taxi is here.” Connor says in lieu of a goodbye.

Hank waits until he hears the taxi drive away, then stands up to get changed.

—

“Mark, there you are!” The Fox greets as Mark gets to the top step of the factory. The room is dimly lit, only one fluorescent beam of light cascading over The Fox and Juice. A small operation for whatever this is. On the way over, Mark was thinking that they captured Terrence Young, unsatisfied with the results of Mark’s doing.

“Take a seat wherever you’d like!” The Fox jokes, although there’s clearly only one seat behind him that he wants Mark to take. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Mark complies, sitting at the edge of the seat. He looks between Juice and The Fox, waiting for answers.

“I checked the obituaries every day, Mark. The police blotters. Fuck, I _even_ called the Detroit City Hospital a couple of times to see if Young was there. Nothing fucking turned up.” The Fox says, circling around Mark’s chair like a shark. Juice stays where he is, just beyond the light.

“I did what you told me to do.” Mark says. He’s not _wrong_. “I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

The Fox sighs. “I’m thinking you did something more than just cutting his brakes. I think you fucking _told_ him.”

“I—I didn’t!” Mark says. “Maybe he found out before—”

“ _Bullshit_.” Juice says. “I’m thinking you got a fucking conscience after we dropped you off.”

“He has a family, they don’t deserve to get hurt. And—and he was just doing his job!” Mark says, knowing it’s the wrong thing. “But I didn’t _fucking_ tell him! I don’t even know him!”

“Mittz was just doing his job too!” Juice yells. “And that fucking pig arrested him. He was my fucking friend, Mark!”

“He was mine too!” Mark says, voice processor wavering a little. He thinks about Mittz’s blood spreading along the frozen ground.  
  
The Fox grabs Mark’s hair, pulling his head up to took at him. “I question your loyalty, Mark. I question _you_.”  
  
“W-why would you—?”

“I have a few other dealers for Jericho. They don’t know about any Mark. Mark- _us_ , maybe, but no Mark.”

“I sell the Nox to more than just Jericho. I sometimes use my middle name—”

The Fox releases his grip on Mark’s hair, walking over to Juice. “Have you ever sampled my product, Mark? Taken your own piece of the proverbial pie?”

Mark looks down at his hands. They’re gripping the arms of the chair so hard that his white chassis is coming through. “I’ve sold all that you’ve given me. To both humans _and_ androids.”

The Fox turns around, coming back with a syringe full of Nox. “But how can you attest to its quality?”

Mark gets a brief flash of the pictures of overdoses he was studying earlier tonight. “I can’t,” he says, distracted by the imagery of him being found in one of those positions.

“I think now’s the time to _really_ prove your loyalty. To Nox, to the business, and most importantly, to _me._ If you don’t, well, then you’re just as bad as Officer Young and the entire fucking DPD.” The Fox reaches out his hand, inches away from grabbing Mark’s shirt.

His eyes dart from The Fox to Juice, to the syringe. The Fox laughs softly, pulling his hand away from Mark. “What’s the matter, Mark? Are you _afraid_? I think only a fucking _narc_ would be afraid to shoot up, wouldn’t he?”

“I’m not afraid,” Mark says, voice processor vibrating from the percussive thrum of his regulator. “And I’m not a narc.”  
  
“Prove it then.” Juice calls out, arms folded. The Fox closes in on Mark’s field of vision.

Mark pushes his chair back slightly. Juice runs over and stands behind the chair, locking him between the two. Mark is trapped. The Fox rips open Mark’s shirt, buttons clattering across the floor. Wordlessly, Mark looks up at The Fox, eyes wide. He knows what he has to do. With shaking hands, Mark makes a motion to his sternum, unsteadily pulling out his thirium pump.   
  
His field of vision turns red, alerting Mark that his system will shut down in T-minus 1:27 seconds.

“If you make it through this,” The Fox says, sticking the syringe deep into the bleeding hole in his chest, “there’s a shipment of Nox next Thursday. Pleasure doing business with you, _Mark_.” The two men get up and make their way down the stairs, their cackling echoing in Mark’s ears.

_1:11 until shutdown._

The alerts dissipate from his system. Mark’s vision fades away. The sounds of the cackling muddle in his ears, the incredibly loud buzz of the fluorescent light replacing it like a drill into his brain. He calls out for help, no sound escaping his mouth. His thirium pump melts into his hand. Black liquid pours out of his open cavity.  
  
He sinks through the floor. 

—

Hank’s waiting outside the factory, lights cut off. He holds Connor’s LED in-between his finger and thumb, pressing down. It’s been too long. He knows it. He checks his phone. Nothing from Connor. Turning his attention back to the factory, he sees two figures run out. _The Fox_ , Hank thinks, wanting nothing more than to bash that fucker’s brains in. He forgot the other guy’s name, but he feels just as much animosity for him.

“Okay,” he quietly says to himself, “I’m going to wait until I hear them drive off, then I’m going up.” He unrolls his windows, letting in the bitterly cold Detroit air and strains his ears, listening for tires screeching on the pavement. Sure enough, he hears them peel off into the night. Hank wastes no time in running to the building, bursting through the doors. “Connor! _Connor_!” He calls out, heavy footsteps going up the stairs. He sees Connor on the floor, covered in a mix of blue blood and what he only can assume is Nox.

“Oh _fuck_ !” He says, scrambling to find Connor’s thirium pump. It must have skid across the floor when Connor fell. He crawls on his hands and knees, using his phone flashlight to help guide him. He finds it under a desk, right in a pile of dust bunnies.  
  
Using his jacket sleeve, he wipes down the pump. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_!” Hank panics, fumbling to put the part back in correctly.

He does, and not a moment too soon. “Connor, c’mon, tell me you’re okay.” His eyes are open, but unfocused. He presses a hand against his chest. His thirium pump is working, but it’s all wrong. Hank looks down at his hand, covered in blood and Nox (and a lot of it too).

He needs to find a CyberLife repair shop.

—

_Connor’s in his mind palace._

_It’s different than what he remembered it to be pre-Revolution. It’s dark. Not nighttime dark. It’s black. Almost as black as—_

_Then he remembers why he’s in here._

_Connor looks around the garden. There’s no flowers, no water, no Amanda. It’s a vast wasteland of nothingness. He can make out the shapes of the landscape, the large polymer structure in the middle of the garden. There is a shine to all of the shapes, slight glints of light that Connor can detect as he moves around. He feels his chest vibrating._

—

Hank carries Connor down the steps of the factory, stumbling as he pushes through the double doors. Connor isn’t running too hot, just barely above cold. The cold air won’t help his internal temperatures. He struggles in carrying him to the car, nearly wiping out with Connor in his arms. He manages to make it to the car, a cloud of his warm breath passing over Connor’s lifeless face. He props up Connor against the door as he scrambles for his keys. He opens the back seat and pushes Connor in. “Find me a 24-hour CyberLife repair shop,” Hank practically yells at his phone.

“Searching,” his phone chirps. “Here’s some 24-Hour CyberLife repair shops nearby.”

The closest one is fifteen minutes away. Hank turns the engine over and veers off to the shop.

—

_He brings his hands up to vision. There’s a blur to them as he moves. Veins, chassis, skin projection. He feels like three separate people, each doing the same motion as him concurrently._

_He takes a step forward_

_takes a step forward_

_takes a step forward._

_He’s on the bridge now. Turns out he was wrong when he thought there was no water in the pond. There’s some form of a liquid bubbling up to the bridge. Connor reaches down to touch it, despite his best reasonings. He presses his fingertips against the surface. The liquid is repelled by him, not sticking to any layer of his body. He stands again, getting to the end of the bridge. He looks back at the black pond, entranced by its properties._

—

Hank manages to get to the repair shop in nine minutes. He pulls through to the parking lot, tires skidding on the wet pavement. Dragging Connor out of the car is easier said than done. He’s heavier than he looks. Hank carefully carries Connor through the door.

“How can I help you, sir!” The android asks in a typical customer service voice. Her name tag says Amy.

“He—my partner,” Hank huffs, setting Connor down on the counter, “He overdosed on Nox.”

Amy’s LED glows red. “Did he administer it?”

“I don’t know, I found him like this.” Hank wipes the sweat off his brow. “Can you help him?”

She looks at his torso, messy and bleeding despite his pump being in his chest. “Yes, I think so. Bring him to the back room.”

Hank makes a motion to pick Connor up again, but she stops him. “I got it, sir.” As if he was a sack of potatoes, she hoisted him over her shoulders. Impressed by her strength, Hank follows her behind the counter.  
  
In the back room is a low work table, just long enough for Connor’s upper half to lay on it. She takes a microfiber cloth and wipes down Connor’s skin. His skin projection is becoming weaker, his stark white chassis showing through. “Could you check that box behind you? There should be enough thirium to help him.”  
  
Hank opens the box, grabbing all the packets he can hold in his arms. When he turns around, Amy has taken out his thirium pump.  
  
“What are you doing?!” Hank asks, nearly dropping all of the blood packs.

She puts in a brand new pump and examines the one she took out. “The Nox corrupted it too badly. It works, but just barely. You got here just in time, sir.”

Hank hands her some blood packets. “You seem to know what you’re doing, Amy.”

Her LED turns yellow. “Unfortunately, I’ve had to do this more times than I’ve liked.”

A pause. Hank looks down at Connor, eyes still staring straight forward. “So what now?”

Amy grabs a tube. “Open his mouth.”

—

 _Connor goes to the edge of land and walks into the tar-like liquid. The next thing he knows, he’s staring at the sky, floating along the circling pond. He looks at his hand again. His skin projection isn’t working, how odd. The pond dissolves his clothing, starting to fizz against his chassis. A feeling much like discomfort sets in as it eats away at him. When it gets to his innermost core, his organs, it’s_ painful _. He yells out in his zen garden, his voice having no echo. The liquid pours into his mouth, melting through his throat eventually dissolving away at his brain, leaving nothing but—_

—

Connor shoots up from the table. His vision is red. An alert flashes in front of him.

_Stress levels 70%_

“Connor!” Hank yells, tears forming in his eyes. He refrains from touching him just yet; he seems to be in shock. Connor’s eyes dart around the room, from Hank, to Amy, and back down to the tube coming out of his mouth. He goes to pull it out, but Amy gently pushes him back down. 

  
“Here, let me do it so you won’t damage your vocal processor.” Amy says all too calmly. With a gentle hand, she wriggles the tube out of Connor’s throat. Connor swallows the traces of thirium residue in his mouth. He looks down at his chest, getting an unobstructed view. Traces of Nox and thirium coat his torso in blue-black streaks. Even though he can’t feel tired, he _does_ feel like he got arduously taken apart piece by piece and repaired just as slowly.

_Stress levels 50%_

Hank puts a hand on Connor’s forearm. “Are you okay?”  
  
“I’m…” Connor starts.

_Stress levels 40%_

“I don’t know.” He answers honestly. He’s not sure _what_ he feels right now. Disoriented? Angry?

Hank turns his attention back over to Amy. “Look,” he pulls out his badge. “I’m with the DPD. Could you put this on my expense account?”  
  
She nods. “Certainly!” Back to her customer service programming. She leaves to go to the register, leaving Hank and Connor alone.

Connor’s eyes, glassy in the bright lights, search Hank’s face. “I thought I was going to die.”  
  
Hank starts to tear up despite his best efforts to keep it together until they got home. He doesn’t want to agree with Connor, so he pats his forearm instead of responding.  
  
“Your receipt is ready, Lieutenant Anderson!” Amy called out from the front.  
  
“Yeah, thank you!” Hank said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Connor, are you able to stand?”

Connor gets up from the low table. “I think—” His legs give out.

Hank catches him. “Woah-kay, easy there Con. I got you.” Hank says almost in a whisper. Connor wraps his arm around Hank, steadying him.

Connor’s legs are still wobbly as they step out into the cold night. Hank gingerly puts him into the front seat of his car.

“Do you want to flip through the radio? I think NPR is playing their late night jazz block.”

Connor weakly shakes his head. He looks like he’s in rough shape. A pit in Hank’s stomach develops at the thought of having to take him to CyberLife’s main headquarters. He’ll be sure to keep an eye on him.

When they reach their neighborhood, Connor says weakly, “There’s going to be a shipment next Thursday.”

“Well then I’ll make sure we have every DPD officer with us. What happened tonight was un-fucking-acceptable. I should have notified Miller and maybe even _Reed_ about this shit…” He grumbles mostly to himself as he pulls into the driveway. He kills the car’s ignition. “Do you need help getting out?”

“I can try.” Connor says, opening the car door slowly.

Although weak, Connor’s limbs are starting to cooperate with him. He pulls his boots off, not leaving them nice and neat like he normally does. As he walks to the bathroom, he discards his clothing piece by piece. For once it’s Hank who cleans up after him, throwing his dirty clothes in the hamper.  
  
Hank stands at the door frame of the bathroom, watching a naked Connor look at himself in the mirror. The skin on his abdomen looks like it’s been dyed blue. As Connor looks at himself, he catches Hank’s gaze through the mirror. “Are you going to bed?” He asks.  
  
“Only when you do,” Hank says tiredly, walking up behind Connor. “I’ll be in here so you don’t collapse in the shower or something.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Connor says in a decidedly _not_ fine way.

“We’re taking tomorrow off. I’ll call Jeffrey in the morning and tell him what happened. Maybe show him the fucking repair receipt if he doesn’t fucking believe me.”

Connor steps in the shower, legs still a little shaky to support his body on just one limb. He scrubs off the thirium, the Nox, the _Fox_ , from his body. Anything to get this day off of his mind. He watches the blood and grime swirl down into the shower drain as he rinses off. Connor’s not entirely sure how long he stands under the hot water, trying to forget the feeling of dissolving within his mind palace. Almost on autopilot, he shuts off the water, tugging the shower curtain open. He steps onto the bath mat, the steam from the shower filling the room. Part of him is almost surprised that Hank didn’t slink away while he was showering. A part of him feels warm that it’s not the case. Hank wraps a towel around Connor’s shoulders. “I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me.” He says before kissing his forehead.

Hank’s fighting off sleep as Connor slips into bed. He can tell there’s a lot going on with him, but decides he’ll talk about it when he’s ready. Connor gets the light and Hank makes himself comfortable.

After a moment, Connor’s voice cuts through the thick silence in the room. “I removed my thirium pump so I could be injected with Nox.” Connor said, voice heavy with guilt.

Well. So much for talking about it later.

“Connor, you... _what_?” Hank asks, rubbing his eyes. He’s so damn _tired_.

“I needed...I had to prove my loyalty to The Fox. They were suspicious of what I was doing.”

“Oh, Con,” Hank sighs, “You were still forced into it. They could have killed you if you didn’t—”

“I could have talked them out of it, I could have said things _differently_. I could have done more, I _should have_ —” Connor’s voice starts to crackle, his processor shaking beyond his control.

Hank pulls him into a hug. He feels tears welling up again himself.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Connor sobs against Hank’s chest. “I didn’t want to worry you—”

Hank shushes him. “You don’t have to be sorry. It’s okay. _You’re_ okay.”

Connor brings his face up against Hank’s and kisses him. It’s a different kind of kiss as earlier. It’s more tender, softer. A kiss with a different kind of meaning behind it. Hank wipes a tear from Connor’s cheek with his thumb. They hold each other close, eventually falling asleep in each other’s arms for the night.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hank, I take it you’re not coming in today?” Jeffrey asks in an annoyed tone. It’s just after 11 am.

“Yeah, I. We’re not. Something... _pretty fucked up_ happened last night. Connor almost died.” Hank rubs the back of his neck as he paces around the living room. Connor’s still in bed, his system in sleep mode. There’s probably plenty of back up and recovery protocols his CPU has to run through. He looks around to find Sumo, then deduces that he’s taken Hank’s spot on the bed.   
  
“ _Fuck_ , he—! What the fuck, Hank! What do you mean he almost _died_ last night?”

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, uh...Fox drugged him up last night. I don’t think I have to tell you with what.”

Through the phone he can hear Fowler put a hand over his face. He groans. “And why was there no one else on standby?”

“Connor didn’t— _we_ didn’t think there was any immediate danger!” That’s a lie, although it’s easier to pass as the truth over the phone. “I would have called backup if I knew.” Not a lie.

“Why’d they pump him full of drugs? Was there a tell with him?”

“If they found out he was a cop, they would have just killed him. I think it was more of an initiation-type thing.”

“ _Fuck_ …” Jeffrey sighs. “Is he functio—all right?”

Hank sighs. The sixty four thousand dollar question. “I’m not sure. I haven’t…’woken’ him up yet.”

“Let me know if I need to scrap the mission. It wouldn’t look good for us if we got our police android killed within the first year of employment. We could now get Fox for plenty of other things besides drug charges.”

“I’ll let you know, Jeff.” He hangs up without saying goodbye. He’s glad that Connor wasn’t up to hear Captain Fowler say that. There’s really no turning back now; even Hank knows that.

Hank sets down his phone and walks into the bedroom.

Connor’s in the same position as he was when Hank woke up. Not in his traditional “mummy-style” pose. He’s curled up on his side, hands right where they rested on Hank’s body for the night.

“Hey, Con, it’s 11 am.” Hank says, sitting on a Sumo-free spot on his side of the bed.

Connor doesn’t stir. It’s times like this that Hank wishes he had his LED spinning brightly. A perfect sign for “all systems functional.”

Hank puts a hand on Connor’s side, shaking him slightly. “Wake up,” Hank says, trying to keep calm that he actually _will_ wake up.   
  
Connor’s eyes shoot open, darting around the room. He turns his head slightly off the pillow. “You woke up before me?” He asks incredulously.

 _Always asking the real questions_. “For once, yeah. I figured you’d need some more time to...reboot.”

“I think that proved to be beneficial.” Connor says, sitting up slowly in bed. His limbs still feel slightly strange, almost as if they weren’t installed correctly.  

“Can you stand? Have you checked your—” Hank makes a motion to his sternum.   
  
Connor lifts up his shirt, running a finger along the seam of the pump in his chest. His finger comes back clean, so he’s not _leaking_ anything. Good sign.

He swings his legs over to the side of the bed, standing slowly. Still wobbly. Hank goes to catch him. “Woah, easy there Con.” His strong arms prop Connor back up.

“It seems my limbs still aren’t cooperating.” Connor says, concerned.

“Maybe you just need to try and walk it off.” Hank says, not even considering that he said “walk” in the same vicinity of Sumo. All 170 lbs jumps off the bed and wriggles between Hank and Connor. Connor stumbles back, the St. Bernard throwing him off balance. He manages to catch himself on the windowsill.   
  
“Sumo, _out!_ ” Hank commands. Sumo bounds out of the room. He grabs Connor from under his arms, keeping him steady. “You okay there, Con?”

“Maybe it would be good if we took Sumo out for a…” Connor leans in close to Hank and whispers, “walk.”

—

Hank insists that Connor wears his old parka, despite Connor’s insistence he can’t feel temperature. “I have an understanding of the weather, but that doesn’t mean I’m affected by it.”

“What if—I don’t know, since your system is recovering, the cold weather might, weaken it!”

Connor gives a look to Hank that says “you know _so_ _little_ about how my system works,” but he takes the coat from him anyway.   
  
They take a short walk around the neighborhood, the dead leaves crunching under their boots. Connor’s able to walk without any extra support, but Hank insists upon holding Sumo’s leash. Just in case.  
  
“I talked to Fowler this morning,” Hank says, breaking the silence. “He’s thinking about scrapping the mission.”

Connor balks at the statement. The only thing worse than him almost dying is the prospect of not completing his mission. “He can’t do that!”   
  
“Uh, he _is_ the Captain. Unfortunately he can.”   
  
“Did you tell him that there’s a shipment coming in next week? That we’re so close to finding where the Nox is coming from?!” Connor starts to fidget with his hands with nervous excitement.

“Re- _lax_ , Connor. I didn’t say he was going to. I said he was _thinking_ about it.” He neglects to mention that Fowler just doesn’t want Connor to become scrap metal so soon after hiring him. Not that Connor needs to know that.

“When we get back, I’m going to contact Captain Fowler.” Connor starts walking faster, forgetting that they’re both walking for Sumo’s benefit primarily.

“That’s— _Connor_!” Hank hustles up to him, Sumo dealing with the faster pace just as well. “Come back!”

“I need to send The Fox a message. I need to let him know I’m not dead.” Connor pulls up his messages in his vision.

Hank grabs Connor’s shoulder, disrupting his train of thought. “You _really_ need to slow down.”

Connor unwrenches his shoulder from Hank’s hand. “I need to be there next Thursday, I need to make him aware that—”

“Connor, listen to me!” Hank hisses, aware that they’re not indoors. “You need to calm the fuck down. Did you forget yesterday that you almost fucking _died_? You can afford to take a day off. I’ll tell Jeffrey not to scrap the mission, okay?”

Connor presses his lips in a flat line, his brows furrowed. “Fine.” He concedes, then slows his walk for Hank and Sumo to keep up.

“Here, I’ll call him now.” Hank gets out his phone.   
  
“Hank, that’s really not—” 

“No, no, no, it’s—hey Jeff, just letting you know Connor is A-okay. Yeah, he sure does. Gotta admire his tenacity, right? Yeah. Right. Hey, Connor told me Fox is going to have a shipment next Thursday. Not sure yet. I’ll keep ya posted. Great.” Hank hangs up. “You happy?”

Connor smiles despite his annoyance. “Yes, actually.” He stops wringing his hands after Hank puts his phone away.

—

The rest of the day was spent leisurely. As much as Connor wanted to jump back into the case, he all but _forced_ himself to relax. He read a little, made Hank a late lunch, and rearranged Hank’s record collection.

By bedtime, Connor settles his nerves down. He’s finally starting to feel like himself again.   
  
He decides to surprise Hank. He tiptoes over to the sock drawer, sifting through the different biocomponents. When Hank gets under the covers, Connor wastes no time in straddling over him. “Connor, I don’t know if it’s—” His breath hitches as Connor’s mound presses against his half-hard cock. “You’re wearing _that_ part, huh?”

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Connor sighs with another roll of his hips along Hank’s length.   
  
Hank, a man of little willpower, puts his large hands on his sides. He thrusts upwards.   
  
Connor gasps slightly, just as enthralled at the pressure against his pussy. “Hold on.” He takes an agonizingly long five seconds to take off his boxers, Hank in turn tugging down his boxers to mid-thigh.

“You’re not wasting any time, are you _uuaugh, fuck_ —” Hank groans, Connor sinking his wet heat down on Hank’s shaft. Connor takes off his shirt as if it were burning his skin.   
  
“I didn’t want to wait.” Connor rocks back and forth on the last inch of Hank, reveling in how much he’s filling him up. He thought he’d never feel this again. He feels large hands grip the swell of his ass, picking up the pace. Connor starts to bounce on Hank’s cock.

“ _Ah_ , fuck babe, just like that.” Hank groans, canting his hips up off the bed. He presses his fingers down against Connor’s skin. “I want you to come for me.”

Connor’s slender hand trails down to his clit. His hands work fast to bring him to feeling the electricity of an orgasm. Hank’s hands ghost along his flanks, and that does it for Connor. He tips forward, horizontal with Hank on the bed, gasping as his systems calm down his nerves. He feels the thirium pumping through his body.

Hank rubs his hand up and down Connor’s back, thrusting up into him slowly. “There you go, Con. Just relax.” He feels something wet on his chest. Did Connor _squirt_ ? Hank was only able to make a woman do that once decades ago. Highly unlikely. Did he...did he throw up on him? Is it drool? Curiosity taking him out of the moment, he pushes Connor back up.   
  
A trail of black liquid is pouring out of the seam of his thiruim pump. “ _Connor_ ,” Hank gasps, and Connor looks down. He all but falls off of Hank, his hands wiping at the liquid.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Connor whispers, examining his blackened hands.   
  
Hank pulls up his boxers over his half-mast cock. “What, _what_ should I do?”

“I don’t know!” Connor panics. He goes to the bathroom to wash his hands off, shocked by the blackness of the leftover Nox liquid.  
  
“How much Nox did they shoot you up with?” Hank follows Connor, greeted by the sight of Connor practically scrubbing his skin projection off.   
  
“It wasn’t this much!” He wipes his wet hands along his torso, diluting the Nox liquid. “I think it mixed with some of my old blood.”

Hank runs to the kitchen and opens the fridge, causing the outdated condiments in the door to rattle with the force. He pushes around all the vegetables and left overs and finds a few packets of blue blood.

He hustles back to the bathroom to find Connor doubled over the sink, his thirium pump in one hand.   
  
“Connor, _what_ —”

He scoops some warm water into his open cavity. “ _W-wash-ingg out-t-t._ ” He rasps. He starts to fall backwards. Hank drops the blood packets to the floor and grabs him before his head hits the tiled floor. Hank’s arm shakes as he holds him to assess the damage. He looks at his cavity, dark blue blood still oozing out of the hole.   
  
“Here, let me—” Hank grabs the towel next to the sink and wipes down the cylinder that goes into Connor’s system. He’s not entirely sure this is the protocol, but then again, this isn’t exactly written in CyberLife’s fine print. He circles the metal tube with the hand towel a few times until he figures it’s sufficiently clean. He doesn’t dare let the towel touch the inside of his biocomponents for fear of messing with _those_ also. Amy, the ‘droid that helped out last night, didn’t think have a way to get the rest of the bad blood it out of him. Not that Hank is blaming her.  
  
“ _Ten-n-n s-ss-ssec—_ ” Connor whispers. Hank grabs his thirium pump, gives it a quick wipe with the towel, and shoves the component back into Connor’s chest.

Connor stands upright, hands nervously grasping at his chest. He turns to face Hank. He mumbles his name before wrapping his arms around him.   
  
Neither of them needed _two_ near death experiences so close to one another, but they’re out on the other side.

“We’re going to get that fucking bastard, Connor.” Hank growls. “I promise you that.”

Connor says nothing, focusing on Hank’s steadying heartbeat matching with his own functioning biocomponent.

—

Fox, when’s the shipment going to be? My friends need a refill.  
_  
_Holy shit Mark! Didn’t think you’d make it. Meet up with us in Melvindale @ 11 pm on TH. I’ll drive us there.

_Thanks._

—

Hank and Connor don’t go back into work until Monday.

“Huh,” Reed laughs, standing near their desks as they walk in. “How was detoxing your junkie boyfriend, Anderson?”

Hank grits his teeth. It’s too early for this. Then again, it’s always too early for Gavin.  
  
“That bad, huh? Hey, _Connor_! How many guys did you have to suck off to have them pump that much Nox into you?”

Connor keeps a straight face, eyes directing towards Hank.

“Fuck _off,_ Reed.” Hank barks. He closes in on the space between the two.

He throws up his hands sarcastically. “Ooh, Anderson’s gonna beat the shit out of me for making fun of his dirty Noxhead boyfriend!”

Hank gives him a hard shove, causing Gavin to stagger back a few steps. “Jesus, Hank, _okay._ ” He walks off in a huff. “Can’t phking take a joke…”

“Connor, are you alright?”   
  
Perplexed, he looks at Hank. “Detective Reed trying to get a rise out of us isn’t anything new.”

Hank swallows thickly. It feels _different_ this time, more personal. Maybe it’s because the mission’s threat to Connor _was_ incredibly real. He shakes his head. _Nah, Reed’s just a prick._

Hank’s work phone rings. He fumbles to get it out of his jeans pocket. It’s Johnson. “Hey, Johnson. Ya got any good news for me?”   
  
“Come down to the lab. Bring Connor.” He speaks in a clipped tone. The call ends.

“What is it, Lieutenant?” Connor asks, all business.

“Lab.” Hank grunts, leading the way.

  
—

“Now, you can look under the microscope, but it probably won’t mean much to you.” He sticks hands in his lab coat.  
  
“No, Johnson, you’re probably right.” Hank decides. Connor pushes past him and puts his eye to the microscope lens. He sees a drop of Nox on the slide, zoomed in 100x. Even seeing the deeply black liquid is enough to make his thirium pump beat faster. He pulls away from the microscope, trying to remain casual. Hank notices his jerky movement and places a steady hand on his back.   
  
“What did you find?” Connor asks, trying to lower his system’s stress levels.

“Despite the color, I ended up finding small traces of fentanyl in the samples of what you gave me. Not enough to be fatal in the first samples, but certainly more of a risk in the second batch.”

  
“Now _why_ would a drug dealer want to kill off their customers?” Connor asks, arms folded.

Johnson shrugs. “Tolerance builds, customers always want a greater high.”

Hank strokes his beard. It’s getting a little scraggly as of late. “Still doesn’t make a fuckton of sense.”  
  
“That’s where you come in, Lieutenant. I’m just reporting my findings.”

“Okay, well,” Hank nods, “Thanks Johnson.”

The two of them leave the lab, Connor glancing back at the microscope as he leaves.

—

Hank takes his lunch at his desk for once. He bites into a vending machine sandwich. It’s... _okay_ enough. 2039 and they’re still struggling with vending machine food?

“I don’t understand.” Connor says, eyes darting across the overdose files. “Why would he get a market for something just to pick off his customers one by one?”

“Look, Con,” Hank says, swallowing his dry sandwich. “Dealers aren’t always the smartest people.”  
  
Connor closes the file. “The Fox is more conniving than this, I know it. ‘Crazy like a fox…”’

Hank rolls his eyes. “Please, you’re giving him too much credit. He’s a sociopath, obviously.”  
  
“How do you figure?”   
  
“He _knows_ he’s killing people and he doesn’t care. Look, it’s _much_ different than selling a few grams of weed to your friends in college or something,” Hank clears this throat, moving away from a personal topic. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, he left you to die.”

“I just think there should be a better motive.”

“Connor, I’ve been in homicide for, oh, twenty years?” Hank takes his last bite of his sandwich. “It’s not like how it is in the movies. No one’s motives are as sexy or interesting as you’d like them to be. People are messy. Motives _can_ be straightforward. My god, how long did it take you to figure that androids were turning deviant simply because humans were abusing them?”

“As...as long as it took for me to deviate.” That big case, the one he was created for, where he failed at every turn to learn about humanity. To learn about _Hank_.

“Look, I’m sorry it’s not something bigger. Fox is just a sociopathic asshole. Not clever, or sly, or anything like that.”

Connor thinks back to the time he spent with The Fox as Mark. The touches and caresses, the genuine _interest_ that he had for Mark. He feels so foolish, falling for that. Just another pawn…

Hank crunches the wax paper into a ball, getting Connor’s attention. “Hey, it’s easy to fall into a narcissist’s web. Just be glad you didn’t get eaten up, or whatever.”

Connor nods, struck by the hallucination he had in his mind palace. Nox stifling him, eating away at him… _suffocating_ him.

He shakes his head of the intrusive vision. “You’re right.”

—

Connor keeps changing the radio station.

They’re driving to the station on Thursday night, the snow falling in clumps. “Jesus _fuckin’_ Christ,” Hank says, turning on his windshield wipers. “It’s not even fucking December.”

“I don’t mind the snow,” Connor says, clicking the radio along, catching fractions of songs, identifying them despite the short bursts.  
  
“Yeah, that’s because you don’t feel the cold _and_ you don’t have to drive in the winter.” Connor opens his mouth to correct him. “Ah, ah! Driving me after I’ve had a few doesn’t count.”

Connor closes his mouth. He stops at a radio station. “ _Nox overdoses are only increasing, despite police crackdowns on—_ ” He quickly changes it two stations over to some smooth jazz channel.

“It all ends tonight.” Hank says gravely. “Are you nervous?”  
  
In lieu of an answer, Connor turns up the sultry “Weather Channel” style tunes. Hank laughs slightly; Connor’s learned some proper human coping mechanisms.

They remain in silence until they get to the station.

—

The bullpen is pretty full tonight. Fowler must have called every possible officer in tonight. They strap themselves up with riot gear. Connor, putting on his bulletproof vest, talks to Fowler.   
  
“Sir, it’s almost 10:30. I should get a taxi to meet up with The Fox in order to be there in time.”  
  
Fowler nods. “We’ll be tracking you, Connor. Let us know if things change.” In the most friendly move since Connor arrived at the DPD last year, he curtly nods at him before Connor turns the other way.

He pulls his peacoat on, wading his way through the station. He sees Hank, also in his vest, and makes his way to him. “I’m going now, Hank.” He states.

Hank pulls him into a bear hug, squeezing him with all his might. “Be careful.” He whispers, saying it as if Connor is never careful.   
  
“I will be.” Connor replies. He goes up on his tiptoes to get right next to Hank’s ear. “I love you, Hank.”   
  
Hank places a kiss on his cheek. “Love you too, Con.”

They each let go and continue on, business as usual.

As Connor makes his way out of the precinct, he sees Gavin in riot gear. “ _Hey_ , Connor!” Gavin calls out as Connor passes by him. “Good luck!” He calls.   
  
He smiles at the lack of assholishness from Reed. Mark’s taxi is waiting for him as he walks outside.

—

Melvindale is about a half hour away from the station. Mark arrives slightly late, The Fox waiting for him outside a convenience store.   
  
“As he lives and fucking breathes! Or...doesn’t!” The Fox yells, genuinely excited to see him. “ _Mark_!” He pulls him in for a hug, Mark’s pockets still shoved in his coat. “C’mon dude, where’s the love?” Mark reluctantly hugs him back, hands patting him lightly on the back. “Bundled up tonight, aren’t we?”

“I recently downloaded a sensation protocol to get used to why humans hate the winter so much,” Mark lies easily.  
  
Juice, standing near the nondescript car, scoffs. “Why the _fuck_ would you want to do that?”

Mark shrugs.  
  
“Hey, let’s get going!” Zone yells from inside the car, arms wrapped tightly around his body due to the wind chill. They oblige and get into the sedan.

“So where are we going?” Mark asks.   
  
“Keep your panties on, dude. We’ll get where we’re going when we need to.” The Fox says, pulling out of the parking lot.   
  
_Leaving the meeting area now_ , Mark sends to Captain Fowler’s work phone. He sends another to Hank, just in case of any issues.   
  
“Hey Mark, I’m, like, sorry about last week.” The Fox says, barely sounding sorry. _Sorry I tried to kill you_ . “I just had to make sure you were _with me_ and all that.” _I just wanted to make sure you were an unwitting pawn so I can use you._

“It’s fine,” Mark says, despite it _not_ being fine. “I understand.” Despite _not_ understanding, or not _wanting_ to understand.

“I’m so fucking glad you’re here now, though. What’s coming in tonight is some _premium_ shit. I might have to charge more for this batch.”

Mark can only imagine what that means. More fentanyl in each dose?

“Who knows, if things go well tonight I might make you my right hand man, Mark.” The Fox says, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Mark’s thirium pump works a little faster with his eyes on him like that.

They eventually end up at a truck stop after driving around for about ten minutes. A peculiar place to deal, but maybe it’s better in plain sight.

Mark complies another message. _We’re now at the truck stop near Dearborn. I think the deal is going to happen here._ The first round of officers left around five minutes after Connor did, so there’s going to be some delay before everything goes down.   
  
“Should we wait in the car?” Mark asks casually.   
  
“Yeah, _or_ we could freeze to death.” Juice says. “Fox knows which truck to look for.”

“Which truck is it?” Mark asks.   
  
“What’s with all the questions tonight, dude? Just fucking cool it.” The Fox says, craning his neck around to find if the semi has pulled in yet. No takers.

 _We’re waiting. Don’t rush in until I say so._ Mark wonders if his wire is still in use or is just a useless part at this point. Either way, he sends another message saying, _The key word will be “strong.”_

The windshield wipers turn on, and in the distance The Fox catches the rhythmic flashing of a semi’s brights. “ _Fuck,_ he’s here!” He puts the car back into drive, going over to the other side of the plaza. Again, like how it was in the garment factory, they meet just beyond the edge of the high beam lights.

The Fox gets out of the car to greet the truck driver. Mark adjusts his eyes slightly, making out their hug.

 _Hug?_ Dealers don’t normally hug their—

“How...does The Fox know this man?”  
  
Zone laughs. “It’s his uncle, dude. I don’t know if he makes Nox or _what_ , but—” Mark steps out of the car, met with the brisk air and clumps of snow.

 _Stepping towards suspect now._ Mark sends. His fingers tense.   
  
“Who the fuck’s this?” The truck driver asks. He looks just like Jean-Pierre, only slightly paunchier and taller.   
  
“Oh that’s—” The Fox turns around to see Mark. “Hey Mark, I’m almost done, get back in the car.”

Mark looks at The Fox, snow melting into his coat. “I don’t think I’ll be doing that.”

“JP, what the fuck is your friend doing?” The man’s hand twitching over his holster.

“I have no clue. _Mark_ , get back in the fucking car!”

 _When I say_ . Mark sends out. “I just want to make sure this new batch is _strong_ .”   
  
Almost appearing from the darkness, a group of DPD officers storm from all sides of the truck. “Keep your hands where I can see them! Get down on the fucking ground!” Mark hears Captain Allen yell from behind him.

“What the _fuck!_ ” Jean-Pierre’s uncle yells, drawing his weapon, pointing it to Mark.

“Put your gun down, I _will_ shoot you!”

“Fuck you, you fucking pigs!” He fires off two shots at Mark, one piercing through his shoulder and the other hitting his chest. He stumbles back to the ground, not fatally wounded, but damaged all the same.

Officer Chen shoots the man’s leg to incapacitate him. He cries out in pain, dropping to the ground.

“Uncle Adam!” Jean-Pierre calls out, sinking to his knees. He weakly raises his hands as the officers approach and cuff him.   
  
“ _Get out of the vehicle!_ ” Gavin yells, pointing his pistol at Juice through the glass.

Zone and Juice take their time in leaving the car. “Don’t do anything phking stupid, you’re outnumbered!” They leave with their hands up, not wanting to end up like Uncle Adam.

A few other officers check the back of the truck. Using a crowbar, they pry open the crates of what’s in back. Underneath the boxes of fresh produce are bags upon bags of small Nox containers. “The Nox is here. We’re inspecting the rest of the boxes, Captain.” One calls over radio.   
  
“Copy that.” Allen says, cuffing Zone and Juice.

Hank reads the men their Miranda rights, Mark leaning on The Fox’s car. When Hank is done, Mark asks, “Why’d you do it? Was it for money?”

Jean-Pierre laughs hysterically. “It was never about the money, Mark. If that’s even your _fucking_ name. It was about the control, the _power_.”

“Told you he was a sociopath,” Hank mutters to Mark, turning way.

Mark turns to follow Hank. Before he leaves The Fox, he says, “Oh, and by the way—” His hair turns pin straight. “My name is Connor.”

—

Connor goes to get his shoulder patched up at the ambulance they brought with the sting operation. Luckily there’s some repair materials for androids in the ambulance, as mandated by President Warren in early 2039. The medic stops the bleeding in his shoulder with some crude soldering, but it works for now.   
  
Hank comes over to sit on the bumper. “You gonna be all right?”

Connor looks over at his shoulder, tainted with blue blood. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Hank laughs, looking back at the scene. It’s going to take some time to go through all the boxes Adam had in the truck, not that all of them had Nox in it. He already has a headache from the paperwork and confiscation forms the office will have to fill out, with he and Connor dealing with the brunt of it.  
  
“Fox’s real name is Jean-Pierre Renard.” Hank explains, pronouncing his last name incredibly wrong. “The fucker’s last name literally translates to ‘fox.’ He thinks he’s so fuckin’ _clever_. Turns out the Renard family’s incredibly wealthy in Canada. His uncle, Adam Renard, is a contract worker for different trucking companies. He got paid under the table, so it was hard to track him.”

“Was he the one creating the Nox?” Connor asks, watching a couple of the police cruisers take Fox’s, well, Jean-Pierre’s crew away.

“Not sure yet. Although, if I had to bet on it, I _highly fucking doubt it_ . He fired his gun twice while at _least_ ten officers were aiming at him. Pretty doubtful he’s smart enough to engineer a drug that powerful.” Hank sighs. “If this operation is larger, which it probably is, I’m going to sit it out. _You as well_ , Connor.”  
  
“I actually wasn’t going to suggest it.” Connor admits, pressing his hand over the soldered area on his shoulder.

“Good. Otherwise I would have fucking quit. This case has taken _years_ off my life, I bet.” Hank laughs despite an odd feeling falls between the two of them.

“It’s all over.” Connor says almost crestfallen.  
  
“Sure is. Now we can return back to our normal lives.” Hank pats Connor on the knee.   
  
Another beat of silence.   
  
“Hey Hank?”   
  
“Yeah?”

“Please _never_ call me Mark _or_ Mark Francois again.”   
  
Hank smiles at Connor, who admires the slight gap in his teeth when he smiles this wide. He wraps an arm around Connor’s shoulder, holding him tight.

“Of course, Connor. I promise.”


End file.
